


The Tales We Tell Ourselves

by laurelinvanyar



Series: Bound Pages [2]
Category: Dragon Age (Video Games), Dragon Age - All Media Types, Dragon Age: Inquisition
Genre: Canon Disabled Character, F/M, NSFW, Post-Trespasser, eventual Solavellan
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-09-30
Updated: 2016-01-19
Packaged: 2018-04-24 02:38:15
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 7
Words: 34,275
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4902319
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/laurelinvanyar/pseuds/laurelinvanyar
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>He cups her face with tender care, traces the pad of a calloused thumb over her soft lips. There is a gentleness to his face new enlightenment provides; he is a sculptor marveling in the grace of his creation. Words burn on her tongue, but she swallows the ashes of her condemnation.</p><p><i>You are no Creator. You who deny divinity from your own mouth. </i><br/> <br/>Instead she shows him a crafted expression of her own, the marble countenance of a woman unmoved. “I can’t let you do this.”</p><p>His thumb dips low to rest against her fluttering pulse. “And how would you stop me?”</p><p>She meets his gaze squarely, unflinching. “Anyway I had to.”</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. In Which a Goose Girl Tells a Secret

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Arcanista](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Arcanista/gifts), [electricghoti](https://archiveofourown.org/users/electricghoti/gifts), [Swindlefingers](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Swindlefingers/gifts).



**Chapter 1: In Which a Goose-Girl Tells a Secret**

It’s as if she never lost the hand.

Ellorian twitches her silverite fingers against a cracked pottery mug. There is no sensation, no rasp of skin against the rough clay, but the ability alone brings a tentative smile. She slips the spokes of this newfound function through the mug’s handle and slowly lifts it to her lips in a mimicry of drinking, as the lyrium-engraved instrument welded to her bicep is a parody of a living limb. Yet she is whole in all sense of practicality. That should be enough.

_Let that be enough._

“Be careful!” Both of Dagna’s hands twitch to adjust a rivet or tighten a screw. “You’ll need to gauge your grip strength without any tactile context! The mechanism--!”

The mug shatters in her fist, raining shards on Dagna’s workbench.

Sera lazily flicks a fragment at Ellorian. “Give you five gold to arm-wrestle Bull.”

Ellorian’s smile is a mere twist of her lips. The Chargers are leagues away and she will never again savor cool water or a silk handkerchief between her fingers, nor feel the warmth of a lover’s skin beneath her left palm. _Yet I will fight again. I will wield a staff and mend my own clothing and today_ I will drink tea _with my left hand._ “I want to try again.” Her shoulder aches and aches.  

_Is that not enough?_

Sera doesn’t hesitate to offer her another mug, just as Sera didn’t hesitate to drag Ellorian to Dagna’s Val Royeaux workshop in the months following the Inquisition’s dissolution. “Widdle can make anything from anything!” had been an oft repeated turn of phrase, one Ellorian held close to her heart when progress on the prototype stalled or she forgot herself and tried to reach for something with a hand that wasn’t there...

The second mug crumbles a mere handspan above the workbench. Sera wordlessly pushes another across to her before all of the debris can clatter to the stone floor.

Ellorian frowns at the third mug, and at the gleaming lines of lyrium runes that circle every obstinate metal joint, defiant of her will. She had given up too much of herself to let this fail, sacrificed the two remaining inches of flesh and bone of her forearm so that Dagna and Orlais’ best healing mages could fit a skeletal structure of carved dragonbone into the socket of her elbow. How much blood, how much pain, how many agonizing months of waiting for this day to finally come, when she could finally savor the fruits of her patience and Dagna’s labors?

_It will be enough. I will_ make _it enough._

The third mug never makes it off of the bench.

She tries not to grind her teeth, takes a deep breath, lets it out slowly. The remaining slivers of pottery are ground to dust in her clawed grip. Sera and Dagna know better than to fuss at a moment like this, when Ellorian’s temper is like to burst into fits of swearing or tears (or both). Friends that they are, they let her pretend her mask is firmly in place, give her the time she needs to collect herself without offering meaningless platitudes for the sake of their own comfort.

“It’s almost midday,” Dagna says softly. “We’ll go see what cook has prepared for lunch.” She tugs Sera up by her tunic. “Remember to put on the sling. Your shoulder isn’t used to bearing that kind of weight yet.” Dagna doesn’t mention all the things Ellorian already knows, doesn’t prattle on about “these things take time” or “go slowly or you might injure yourself”.

Ellorian says nothing as they shut the workshop door behind them. They already know how grateful she is for this moment of privacy, for giving her the illusion of dignity. She hurts in the places where flesh meets artifice. To distract herself, she tries to drum her segmented fingers against the workbench one by one. Tap. Tap. Tap. The index and middle fingers move at her command, but she can’t raise her ring finger without lifting the pinkie as well.

_This would be more than enough for anybody else. I should be thankful._

Her frustration winds tighter and tighter. She is a mage. She was the Inquisitor. Her will shapes reality and once turned the course of history. What kind of obstacle is her own body, that her indomitable focus cannot overcome?

_Pride is a fang of the Trickster, da’len._ How often had her mother needed to repeat the old saying? Often enough that Ellorian can still hear the lesson in Deshanna's voice, as clear as if the Keeper sat beside her. _The Dread Wolf makes easy meat of fools who grasp more than they are capable of holding._

The memory fills her with wry mirth and bitter laughter. “Oh Mother, if only you knew.”

“Talking to yourself is never a good sign,” a low voice drawls behind her.

_Samson_. She spins to confront him. “I didn’t hear you come in.”

He shrugs, shifting the stack of boxes in his arms. “I’m very sneaky.” His voice is ever so casual.

His expression doesn’t change, but Ellorian is all too aware he is inwardly laughing at her. She stifles a burst of indignation as best she can, but her voice is still clipped. “What do you want?”

The corners of Samson’s eyes crinkle, though the rest of his face remains still. “Dagna has me playing messenger raven. Lunch is ready.” The boxes rattle as he drops them beside the forge. He strides back across the room to snatch up a broom and dustpan, and promptly begins sweeping the fragments of pottery littering the floor beneath the workbench.

This time Ellorian makes no attempt to hide her affront, flouncing from her seat. “Well excuse me for getting in your way!” she says, tartly. “I’d help you with that, but...” She waggles her prosthetic.

Samson frowns. “If your shoulder is that stiff, you should be wearing your sling. I see a swordsman with that kind of movement, I know he’s gone too hard in the training yard.” He plucks up the sling from the workbench and thrusts it at her. “You’ll do yourself an injury if you’re stupid about it.”

_The_ gall _of this man!_ Ellorian swipes it from his fingers. “Thank you for your concern, but I know my own limits.”

Samson calmly continues sweeping. “You _knew_ your limits.” He doesn’t even bother looking up at her. “Push too bloody hard and you’ll set yourself back even farther. All your haste for naught.”

“ _Some_ of us don’t take the easy way out,” the words are out of her mouth before she can think, dripping scorn. Immediately, she wishes she could have them back.

He blinks. She almost wishes he would shout. A frozen moment passes.

Then he leans forward, his mouth a sneer. He no longer hides his contempt for her; She’s stripped away any veneer of civility their interactions could have. “I have more than my fair share of regrets, but _surviving_ will never be one of them.” He has a white-knuckled grip on the broom. “Tell me, when’re you going to remember to keep living? Ever since you lost the arm, you’ve run like a scared rabbit.”

Her mouth opens, but no sound comes out. She doesn’t know what outrages her more, the accusation of cowardice or the slur.

“Your friends care enough to coddle you, but I bloody won’t. You think you know something about _the easy way, girl_? You’ve let your life slip away, let the people who followed you just slip away, while you wait for that contraption to fix all of your problems.”

Fury is enough motivation to break her silence. “The Inquisition was vulnerable to Fen’Harel’s spies, _shem_.” She matches him slur for slur. “I disbanded it to keep us safe.”

“You disbanded it to lick your wounds.” His voice is as brittle as the shards of mug crunching under his boots. “Neither of us has the luxury of waiting around for things to get better. If you’re too afraid of facing the rest of the world as you are, you might as well...” He looks over her shoulder instead of meeting her eyes. Ellorian follows his gaze to the forge, where Dagna keeps Maddox’s tools carefully arranged.

Her anger gutters out like a candle in high wind. _Is Maddox all that tethers you here, Samson? Do you endure for yourself, or to honor the price paid?_

“Dagna says she never could have worked out the rune array for the dragonbone foundation without Maddox’s notes.” She means it as an unspoken apology, but the lines in Samson’s face deepen.

His reply is neither plea nor demand. “Remember that.”

Ellorian can’t be certain whether the words are intended for her ears or his. He has made himself vulnerable, this former enemy of hers, and for no better reason than to help her in his own fumbling way.

_Pride is a fang of the Trickster._

“The others can’t know.”

Samson nods slowly in understanding. _He’s lead men before; knows what it means to give strength to others by word or deed or example._

“I don’t know if I can be any more afraid without falling apart completely.” She owes him this, the truth she cannot bring herself to tell even her closest companions. For so long she stood as the Herald, a living symbol of hope all of southern Thedas rallied to. _So long as the music plays, we dance._

“If it were just the arm--” She takes a deep breath, lets it out slowly. “I’m barely handling--.” Another deep breath. “Josephine had to take on all the work of just demobilizing our forces. To continue the Inquisition, always needing to watch my own for corruption in the ranks--” Ellorian clutches the sling to stop her living hand from shaking. _How long has it been since I could sleep without the potions the healers provide?_

“I need to fight-- to wield a staff again. Reading the reports from Divine Victoria is one thing, but I need to be back in the field.” She resists the urge to twist the sling between her hand and the polished metal instrument; she would likely rip the damn thing in half.

“You mean to deal with your former… companion.”

_My former lover. My_ friend _._ “I mean to deal with him personally. But not yet. I’d be a liability in this state.” The next bit is a wrench to admit. “And I’m not entirely sure how to change his mind about tearing down the Veil.” _I sound like a stupid little girl._

Samson snorts. “And mages wonder why everyone fears them. Though I suppose he’s not exactly an ordinary mage, is he?” He shakes his head. “I don’t know that a man like that can be persuaded. I’ve seen enough self-important monsters in my time.” His grin is acerbic and self-deprecating all at once. “A god doesn’t much care if he crushes a few beetles underfoot.”

“He isn’t a god, just a man.” _A man I never thought capable of anything like this. A man I trusted. A man who turned an entire Qunari battalion to stone._ “Anyway, the point is moot until I can get fighting fit again. There are contacts I need to meet in person, information that cannot be passed on by letter or verbal message.”

“And that’s why you’re being an idiot about the shoulder?” Samson leans the broom against the workbench, sets the dustpan beside it on the floor.

“The faster I learn to use this,” Ellorian flexes her bicep, hefting the weight of silverite, “The sooner I can be out there, stopping him from doing whatever it is he has planned.” _What_ does _he have planned?_ “What’s a sore shoulder compared to the end of the world?”

“If the world is going to end, then you only have one shot at this.” He points to the cloth in her hands. “Best do it right. Put the blighted sling on.”

She does.

Samson gives the forge one more fleeting look.“Come on, lunch is probably cold by now.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Special thanks to all my falons for encouraging me to write <3
> 
> The Goose Girl  
> https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/The_Goose_Girl


	2. In Which a Girl Visits the Home of her Suitor

**Chapter 2: In Which a Girl Visits the Home of her Suitor**

It takes her two weeks to grip a mug without cracking it into uselessness, and a further three days before Ellorian feels confident enough to try filling it with drink.

She sticks to water at first. The idea of wearing breeches soaked through with hot tea is not at all appealing; neither is the possibility of irreparably staining her garments with wine. Ellorian chafes at this glacial progress, even as Sera marks every small milestone with a celebratory round of hand-made cookies.

“I can’t even go a full day without my sling! What is there to celebrate?” Ellorian stares glumly at the pile of misshapen confections dumped unceremoniously on her desk. There are crumbs in her inkwell and a smudge of chocolate on a letter sealed with the sunburst of the Divine.

“Better is _better_ ,” Sera grumbles through a mouthful of cookie. “Dafty downer, you.”

Ellorian doesn’t even dignify that with a response. She wipes the melty chocolate off of Leliana’s report as best she can and cracks the heavy seal.

Dearest Ella,

You cannot know what a relief it is to hear of your progress. Enchanter Amaury Raoult is a former apprentice of our own Vivienne, known throughout Thedas for his skills as a healer. I know she would not have left you in any hands less capable than the very best, but I cherish every bit of news that comes across my desk. Sadly, I have very little good news to write back. Violent incidents involving elves, qunari, and even a few dwarves are increasing of late, most likely in response to Briala’s ascension to the nobility and my own small doings…

 _She calls reinstating the Canticle of Shartan_ small _doings_? Ellorian can only shake her head.

...must remember that no worthy task is performed without strife from those who cannot withstand change. Any who would strike at me have only strengthened my own resolve; I shall not fear the legion should they set themselves against me, for I know we are on the right path. I had so hoped that opening the priesthood to other races would see an influx of new blood to fill the void in the ranks left by the Breach. Alas, only a handful of elves have come forward to be ordained. Perhaps they fear retribution? Only yesterday I heard Lady Josseline de Courvoisier lamenting her lack of servants. Apparently her household has seen many changes these past months, with almost all of her elven staff leaving. A charming woman, no doubt Sera would find her delightful...

_A woman who mistreats her servants, but only the elves leave. City elves have endured purge after purge; a few more “incidents” wouldn’t cause this level of panic._

...Cassandra and her Seekers remain in Skyhold for the time being. I am determined the castle is to remain a place of pilgrimage and sanctuary for all peoples of Thedas, though some might wish to dispute our claims. Cassandra reports that Gatsi managed to unearth the foundation of the original elven structure under the northwest battlements. Perhaps there is still history to learned. I understand that all elven settlements were connected to the greater empire through the eluvians? It is fascinating what one can learn from old texts...

_She has Cassandra searching Skyhold for leads on Solas or eluvians with men specifically trained to track dangerous magic. Who would claim the castle out from under the Divine? I really must speak to Vivienne._

...have spoken with one of the new elven initiates, a very nice young man who was especially eager for news of you. We had a lovely chat over tea, but I fear he has chosen a different path than a life as a chantry brother. I have not seen him since, poor lad, though I wish him well.

I must end this letter, but I send with it all my prayers for your speedy recovery.

Best Wishes,

Leliana

P.S.: I almost forgot the good news! Schmooples III’s new litter is due to be weaned by the end of the month! The pick of the litter, a darling little girl, will be sent to you as soon as she is old enough! Write to me with the name you intend for her so I can have a collar engraved.

_She’s warning me to watch for spies among my own kind! Am I to look sideways at any elf who crosses my path like some shemlen noble? If she warns the wrong person, it could lead to more mistrust, more violence against nonhumans!_

“Dread Wolf take him, we’ll be lucky to escape another Exalted March if it gets out that the elves are aiding him!”

Sera cackles loudly, startling Ellorian out of her anger.

“If Solas is the Dread Wolf, doesn’t that mean you just told him to go fuck himself?” Her grin is obscenely wide.

Ellorian puts her hands in front of her face to hide her rising blush. The silverite prosthetic is wonderfully cool against her burning left cheek. “Force of habit,” she mumbles into her palms. She can feel a migraine coming on, a mounting pressure behind her eyes. “What do you know of the Lady Josseline de Courvoisier?”

“Noble bint,” Sera answers without hesitation. “Frigging generous with her whippings. Three visits from my Friends hasn’t even slowed her down, the cow.” She leans against the corner of the desk. “Why?”

Ellorian pinches the bridge of her nose to stave off the pain. “Is she particularly bad with her elven servants, or is she an equal opportunity sadist?”

Sera frowns. “Your head is hurting again, isn’t it? Those nasty potions Vivvy sends might make you sleep, but I bet they don’t do anything for relaxing.”

 _They stop me from dreaming._ “Answer the question please.”

“She’s hard on everyone. Had her cook beaten for putting too much salt in the soup once.” Sera pushes herself up and hustles out the door, calling, ”Wait there! I have just the thing!”.

_So I was right after all. The elves are leaving for some other purpose._

Sera returns in minutes with a triumphant smile and a small leather pouch. “This ought to set you right!” She rummages in the pouch for a few seconds before pulling out two wooden pipes.

Ellorian groans. “Sera, I don’t--”

“Don’t argue!” Sera interrupts. She hauls Ellorian out of her chair by the elbow and gives her a gentle push towards the window seat. “You’ve been reading letters for three frigging days. S’not healthy! C’mon, I’ll even let you light it with _magic_.”

 _This must be really important to her, if she’s willing to let me cast a spell literally under her nose._ Ellorian holds out her living hand for the pipe and takes her seat on the embroidered cushions of the window seat. “Fine. It had better be damned good elfroot, though.”

Sera tamps the elfroot with practiced motions. She barely even flinches when Ellorian calls a tiny yellow flame to the tip of her forefinger and runs it over her pipe’s bowl.

It takes a few puffs for Ellorian to accustom herself to smoking again. The first inhalation sears bitterly, the second merely tastes terrible.

Ellorian takes a third draw from her pipe and tucks her feet beneath her. She holds the smoke in her mouth for a heartbeat before letting it uncurl off of her tongue, pretending the white wisps are Spirits of Worry leaving her and returning home to the Fade. _It would be nice to go home again. It would be nice not to have to look over my shoulder all the time._

Sera sprawls on Ellorian’s bed, her dirty, bare feet on the quilted coverlet. “Great stuff, yeah?” She crosses her arms behind her head and sighs contentedly. “Nabbed a whole cask from a rich tit’s cellar. Lucky find.” Her feet kick idly, perhaps imagining the nobleman’s face beneath her heel. ”A good thing, too. You’re almost as big a broody butt as Solas, these days. Blah blah spy rubbish.”

Ellorian can already feel a warm haze settling over her. Her headache has settled down into faint buzzing, as if Sera has managed to fit an entire beehive in her head. She grins around her pipe stem. “He has an unfair advantage: more butt to brood with.” She laughs aloud at Sera’s revolted grimace.

“Eeugh. Don’t wanna think about that arsehole’s arse.” Sera feigns throwing up before taking another drag. “I mean, you wanna talk about him I’ll listen. It’s all weird shite to me, but whatever. We’re friends.”

“It’s mostly just funny now. I spent my whole life training to become a Keeper, you know? We’re supposed to protect the clan from the Dread Wolf, and I took him to bed instead. Whoops.” Ellorian shrugs theatrically. “I’m probably the worst First ever.” _He did have a nice butt, though. Pretty eyes too._ When she shakes her head to dispel the thoughts, Ellorian can feel them rattling around inside of her skull like marbles in a jar.

“So...if he’s this ancient elfy Big Bad, then he’s _really_ old. Old as _balls_.” Sera snorts. “Cradle robber, that one.”

Ellorian bursts into a fit of giggles. “And here I thought he was only twice my age.” She hoists herself up to stand on wobbly legs only long enough to flop down on the bed next to Sera.  “Wow. I have such great taste in men.”

“Blugh. Men.” Sera wrinkles her nose and pokes her tongue out around her pipestem.

They both collapse in shared hilarity (though neither of them know why for certain), snickering and elbowing each other like small girls.

Ellorian takes another draw from her pipe. When she exhales, the smoke flickers pale yellow and orange in the light of the sunset slanting through the window. In this moment she feels like herself again: bright and fierce, a dragon breathing golden flame. “Hey, Sera? Thanks.”

“Mmm.” Sera’s eyes are closed.

 _What a good idea._ Ellorian extinguishes her pipe with a burst of frost magic and sets it on her bedside table. _I’ve probably had enough._

She lays back on the pillows and closes her eyes, stretching like a cat exulting in the sun. _It’s only for a few minutes._

Her thoughts drift, dusky and languid. _A few minutes._

Her breathing slows. _A few..._

She stands in the center of the rotunda at Skyhold, under the great red eye of the Inquisition. In the manner of all dreams, some details remain distinct while others blur at the edges. A tidy pile of books sits on Solas’ desk as always, but Ellorian cannot determine their titles. She breathes in the familiar scents of parchment and pigment and woodsmoke, but cannot hear the murmurs of Dorian or the librarians echoing off of the rotunda walls. The castle seems as silent as the grave, but she can sense _something_ watching her.

_Perhaps it’s just the ravens. Do ravens dream? I cannot hear them._

The many eyes of the mural follow her every movement. Ellorian takes a hasty step backwards, jarring the desk and its contents. The books tumble to the floor and vanish, along with the quills and stoppered inkwell. The sound of the shard shattering quivvers in the silence, making the fine hair on the back of her neck and arms prickle into gooseflesh.

_Something isn’t right._

The wolves shed their plaster stillness and begin circling her, roaming into the other panels of the mural, lips peeled back in a silent snarl. _You are an intruder here,_ they seem to say _. Begone, begone, begone. This is not your place._ She wants to explain that this is her place, that she belongs here, but the six red eyes and slavering jaws dissuade her.

_Something is very wrong here._

There is a whispered susurration coming from the rookery, like the beating of a thousand thousand wings. In the manner of all dreams, her first step takes her up to the second tower level, her surroundings swirling and indistinct. A brief glimpse of the rotunda from above makes the blood freeze in her veins. The wolves have broken free of the mural entirely to follow her; stalking up the walls of the stair well and twining around pillars, herding her up and up and up.

_I sense no demon at work. What madness has my own mind in store for me?_

Her second step takes her to the rookery door, where she presses her ear against the grainy wood. Behind it, a zephyr howls. In the manner of all dreams Ellorian knows she should not open the door even as her hand grasps the handle and turns.

_I am a mage, and this is my dream. I want to wake up._

A shrieking cacophony greets her as she throws the door open. Ravens cawing, screeching, dying, each pecking out the eyes of others in a tempest of black feathers. Minutes, days, years pass until only one emerges from the twitching heap, victorious and bloodstained.

The raven cocks its head at Ellorian. Only a smeared socket remains of one eye; the other glitters blackly with an unnatural intelligence. It hops towards her, claws scraping carelessly over the squirming, squalling bodies of its flock-mates. The bird’s left wing drags brokenly behind it; Ellorian can see pearly silver bone protruding from the red ruin of the wing joint, where only a thread of sinew keeps it attached.

In the manner of all dreams she is kneeling among the offal before conscious thought, thin bird bones snapping like spindles under her weight. Ellorian offers her arm-- her left arm, whole and unscarred-- to the pitiful creature. She knows there are eyes on the back of her head, but she only has eyes for the raven.

_This is only a dream. Wake up, Ellorian! Wake up!_

The raven clambers awkwardly onto her wrist, its keen talons gouging deep furrows in her bare forearm. Ellorian gasps at the sudden shock of pain, at the warm blood trickling down her wrist, but keeps the arm flat and steady. The bird cocks its head at her again; when it caws the noise echoes throughout the hollowness of the rotunda and reverberates back louder than before. The racket makes her temples ache.

Ellorian grips the torn wing firmly in her right hand and jerks. In the manner of all dreams, time slows until she perceives several different things all at once. The broken wing briefly becomes a shining silverite hand between her fingers before vanishing into smoke. The raven launches itself at her face, screaming. Long fingers grip her shoulders and warm lips press tenderly to her right ear.

She raises her bloody hand over her face to protect herself, though she already knows that the raven’s murderous beak will pierce any flesh to bury itself in her left eye. _This is a dream and I want to…_

“Wake up, vhenan.”

When she claws her way to full consciousness, it is pitch dark and her heart is trying its damndest to beat its way out of her chest. The sound of Sera snoring open mouthed besider her is almost soothing, a small slice of normalcy. Someone has covered them both in a red blanket embroidered with fluffy yellow bees. _Dagna_.

Ellorian scrambles out of bed, rubbing the image of the rookery and its charnel house from her eyes. Remembering the feeling of eyes on the back of her neck, she curls up on the window seat again and waits for the sun to rise.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The Robber Bridegroom  
> https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/The_Robber_Bridegroom_(fairy_tale)
> 
> Special Thanks to Arcanista for helping me edit <3


	3. In Which a Girl Sings From Her Tower Window

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Rapunzel  
> https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Rapunzel

**Chapter 3: In Which a Girl Sings From Her Tower Window**

The near-empty crystal flask of sleeping potion taunts Ellorian every morning.

“It’s not that I can’t go without it,” she tells a dubious Sera. “I’d just rather not.”

_I could stop taking it if I wanted to. I could._

Yet night after night when she settles into bed, Ellorian can still see the one-winged raven behind her closed eyelids, can still feel eyes on the back of her neck, can still hear that velvet voice, so intimately familiar. She cannot-- _will_ not-- think about what that last means.

_The whole dream was just a product of my own demented imagination and too much elfroot. That’s all. Solas would never--_

Once upon a time, Ellorian would never have believed him capable of causing the Breach, either.

_Fenhedis. Compared to that, what does lurking in someone’s dreams uninvited matter?_

So every night she gives in to the bottle and lets Vivienne’s potion smooth over her tongue. Ellorian smothers her dreams in sticky honey and bitter herbs until even she cannot remember them, lets blackness take her mind whole until morning. She fears the strain is starting to show under her eyes in purple bruises.

“Wake up before you fall into your blighted porridge, girl!”

The sharp voice rouses Ellorian from her reverie. “Huh?” _Oh very eloquent. Elgar’nan! It’s a good thing I don’t drool in my sleep._

Samson chuckles. “A grand sight that would be. The blessed Herald of Andraste asleep in her bowl.” He only laughs harder when Ellorian makes a rude gesture she learned from Sera. “A messenger just arrived from the Grand Enchanter. The lad didn’t wait for a response.” He hands her the letter before scooping up an empty bowl and attending to his own breakfast.

She receives the note with as much grace and dignity as she can muster. “She didn’t send a package with it?”

“Hoping for more potion?” Samson asks through a mouthful of porridge. “The way you’ve been taking it, there can’t be much left.”

“Sera told you.” Ellorian looks down at the fine parchment between her hands and crumbles the blue wax seal between her living fingers so she doesn’t have to see the understanding on his face. He too knows what it is to live reliant on a bottle, though lyrium is undoubtedly the more insidious substance. _He probably thinks me a fool, to voluntarily put my foot in the very trap he and so many others fought so hard to escape._ She suppresses a snort. _I_ am _a fool. For all I know, the whole dream was just some elfroot-induced hallucination._

“Sera told me,” Samson says. “I don’t know what memories you’re hoping to chase away, but...”

Ellorian can’t bring herself to look up from the crumbled pieces of wax scattered across the worn tabletop, but she can hear him tapping his spoon restlessly against the side of his bowl. “I know I shouldn’t take it. I know.” Her voice is very small in the empty space between her and Samson.

Just the thought of going without, of potentially allowing Solas that invasion of her subconscious thoughts and fears makes her stomach lurch. Ellorian cannot help but shudder. _Don’t think about it. Don’t think, don’t think, don’t think…_

She hears another sigh, and the scrape of his chair being pushed back. Ellorian winces. _He probably can’t stand to see such cowardice._ A rough hand comes down on her shoulder and squeezes, briefly, before pulling away.

“Maker’s breath, I’m not going to shout at you.” Samson’s voice has more gravel than usual. “A bit of advice from someone older? Not sure about wiser. You have enough on your plate without adding something like this.”  

“What if it’s worth it?” _He’s Fen’Harel, the Bringer of Nightmares himself. Do I dare risk letting him into my dreams?_

“Trust me, it’s not. I’d wager Madame de Fer feels the same, else she'd have sent you more potion straightaway.” Samson taps the fine parchment in her hands and retreats back to his breakfast.

Vivienne’s letter is crisp and succinct, penned in her precise, elegant hand.

My dear Ellorian, I invite you to join me for tea and refreshments this afternoon, where we can discuss your ongoing recuperation at length. My coachman will collect you and convey you directly to my townhouse. With affection, Vivienne

The letter leaves no room for ambiguity. Though politely worded, Ellorian knows this is no request. _Well. That flask was supposed to last me another two weeks. It follows she would have questions on why I need her to brew more on short notice._

“So? Is she sending another flask?” Samson keeps his eyes on his porridge as he scrapes down the sides of his bowl with a spoon.

“No,” she tells him, rising. “It’s an invitation to tea.”

It takes two servants to arrange Ellorian for the impending verbal battle: one to wrangle her into a gown of emerald silk trimmed with wispy lace at the collar and another to tame her hair into an arrangement respectable enough for a visit to the home of one of Val Royeaux’s most honored citizens. Both of the servants are elven women, awed and eager to serve a fellow elf who was once raised so high. _Fen’Harel has spies everywhere._ Ellorian keeps her eyes down to hide her unease, hollowed with guilt every time she sees their bright faces, young and free of vallaslin.

_Dera and Kariel followed all the way from Skyhold in order to serve me. They’ve dressed me and bathed me, sewn my clothing and helped in all the tasks that need two working hands. Both asked to stay, to aid me when my prosthetic isn’t dextrous enough for what’s needed. Neither deserve my suspicion._ Ellorian longs for the simpler days, before Solas became Fen’Harel and began his shadow war. Her chest aches with self-loathing. _What a proper shem lady I’ve become, sneering at my servants and suspecting each and every one of wrongdoing. Next I’ll start calling them “knife-ear” and having them beaten for not showing enough respect!_

Ellorian’s mood does not improve when the footman in Ghislain livery attempts to hand her into the black lacquered coach in the stableyard. The befuddled servant clearly expects her to grasp her skirts in her right hand and his own hand in her left.

_Oh, the gloves._ She has her dainty nugskin gloves tugged up until only a thin crescent of silverite shows above her left elbow, masking the artifice affixed to her left bicep. The man’s calloused hands seem so frail compared to the unfeeling strength of her metallic grip.

_I will not maim a man for courtesy’s sake!_ Summoning her most dazzling smile, she winks and rushes straight past him up into the carriage. _If you can’t be flawless, be flashy. Thanks, Varric._

When the footman closes the door behind her, Ellorian tugs the silken braid holding back thick velvet curtains. Instantly, the coach interior is swathed in shadow with only a thin strip of sunlight peeking through where the cloth does not quite reach the window’s base. She hears the crack of the driver’s horsewhip, urging his team onward; and the carriage picks up speed, winding its way through the bustling streets of Val Royeaux.

Ellorian stares at the gloved hands in her lap; if not for the added heft of silverite weighing down her left shoulder, she doubts she could tell which of the hands is the one bereft of life. _Only an illusion. Dress it up as I will, the left will always be cold utility, nothing more._

The little bar of light sways back and forth across the carriage floor. Ellorian slumps in her seat and tries to think of happier times, before the world became myriad paths of brambles in the dark.

“Darling, it is so good of you to visit me.” Vivienne sweeps her skirts out in a perfect arc as she takes her seat in the palatial solar. “The carriage ride was pleasant, I trust?”

Ellorian settles less gracefully into her own tufted armchair. “Very pleasant, thank you.” _Attack first, to direct the conversation!_ “And how are you, Grand Enchanter? I understand there have been… tensions between your Circle and the College of Enchanters.” She keeps her back straight, as Vivienne taught her, by digging her bare heels into the rich carpet. The silk of her gown makes her perch on the silk-upholstered chair a slippery one.

Vivienne waves a dismissive hand. “Nothing you need worry about, my dear. A minor disagreement over new apprentices.” She gestures briskly to the servants in Ghislain livery.

Ellorian murmurs her thanks as a human servingman pours her a fragrant cup of tea. “Fiona agreed to respect the choices of those mages who wished for Circle oversight. Freedom for mages includes freedom to _choose_.” The teacup’s porcelain seems as fragile as eggshells. _Best to use my right hand, then._

“Indeed.” Vivienne stirs cream into her own cup of tea. Her silver spoon does not clink against the sides of the cup. “ _Fiona_ agreed to my proposal. Her ragged band of _malcontents_ did not.” She cradles the delicate saucer in her left hand and raises the cup to her lips with her right.

_I suppose I could act the Dalish savage and forgo the saucer._ Ellorian dismisses the thought immediately. This is the little Game they have always played, where Vivienne displays the proper etiquette and Ellorian mirrors her, guided through the elaborate dance of Orlesian court manners. Ellorian folds her living hand atop the metallic one in her lap; the prosthetic feels rigid and lifeless through the thin softness of her glove.

Another servingman ghosts through the gilded double doors, bearing a three-tiered silver salver set with tiny sandwiches and cakes. He sets his burden on a low mahogany table and bows his way out of the room without a word, his eyes cast down. _Another human servant._ Ellorian frowns before she can stop herself.

“The rebels have taken it upon themselves to _persuade_ mages and their families to attend their little establishment by brute force, if necessary. They all but threatened to burn down the hovel of the family of the last apprentice to--” Vivienne purses her lips. “Darling, are you quite alright? You have not even touched your tea.”

“To be perfectly honest, I’d rather not break your dishes.” Ellorian gives Vivienne her most impish smile, the one Vivienne taught her to charm nobles at Halamshiral. _Let them think you a pretty little doll. Let them underestimate you right up until the moment you outmaneuver them. You are a young lady with nothing to hide, sweet and open and above suspicion._

Vivienne lowers her cup and saucer and studies Ellorian for a moment, considering. “The tea is your favorite blend from Vol Dorma. Drink, and we can dispense with the pleasantries. We have more important topics to cover, don’t we my dear?”

_Of course it didn’t work._ Ellorian grins ruefully and gratefully partakes of her tea sans saucer. “I didn’t want my teacher to think me a neglectful student.”

Vivienne’s returning smile is warm. “Flattery is always welcome, my dear, but I am not deterred so easily. Now before we speak of your recovery, what is it about my servants that disturbs you so?”

_Keep her on a different subject!_ “I’ve had troubling reports from Leli-- Divine Victoria.” Ellorian catches herself on the name just in time. “Forgive me, but how many elves are still in your employ? I must have passed a dozen servants on the way to this solar, all human.”

“A few kitchen maids, carefully watched.” Vivienne response is crisp and immediate. “None in a position to gather valuable information for Fen’Harel. He is welcome to any gossip they manage to overhear.” She shakes her head. “My most trusted servants are all human, though of course that alone does not eliminate the possibility of information falling into the wrong hands. Remember darling, all it takes is a loose tongue or a bag of coins to loosen a tongue. He need not send spies directly.”

Ellorian’s hands shake so hard her cup clatters against the saucer. “I had not considered that.” _Fool! Fool! Arrogant little fool!_ The gilded walls seem to shrink around her. Resisting the urge to hunch her shoulders, Ellorian hastily places her teacup on a side table before it can spill.

Again, Vivienne carefully measures her over the rim of her teacup. “I take it this is why you have begun medicating yourself into a stupor every night? Sera describes your behavior of late as, and I quote, ‘twitching like a goat with the itch’.”

The droll description forces a terse laugh from Ellorian. “You’re working with Sera now?” _Evade until you can turn the conversation the way you wish!_

“Only for you, my dear.” Vivienne waves her hand airily, as if to brush away the association. “Do be creative with your gratitude. One can only receive so many fruit baskets.” Her expression sobering, she adds, “He will watch you closest of all, I think. Your prior entanglement likely gives you the best insight into his actions of anyone, and therefore you are potentially the greatest threat to his plans.”

_At last, an opening I can use._ “And that is why I must continue taking the potion. We knew Solas to be a talented Fadewalker when he joined the Inquisition. Among my people, he is known as the _Bringer of Nightmares._ Dare I risk meeting him in the Fade, his place of strength? Dare I risk giving him information he can potentially turn against me? Without the Anchor I cannot walk the Fade with impunity; it is no longer mine to command.”

“Has he come to you in dreams?” Vivienne steeples her fingers in contemplation. Her expression is keen, calculating.

Ellorian makes no attempt to prevaricate; the Iron Lady has stared down liars far more accomplished than she. “I can’t be certain.” She keeps her head down and her hands from clutching her skirts by serving herself a cucumber sandwich and a strawberry tart. _I sound like a frightened child running to her mother during a storm._

“If it were not a strong possibility you would not be here, asking for more potion. My dear, have you considered how you may turn this to your _advantage_? A man might let something slip to a charming girl like you, and you already have his interest and an established emotional connection to leverage in your favor.” Vivienne calmly refills her teacup. “As I recall you had him thoroughly wrapped around your pretty little fingers when he shared your bed. Close your mouth darling, it’s terribly uncouth.”

Ellorian’s mouth closes so quickly her teeth click audibly. _She can’t be serious._ “In hindsight, I rather think he had me wrapped around _his_ fingers.” The glistening summer strawberries no longer seem so appetizing. “I don’t know if I have the acting skills necessary to deceive the Lord of Tricksters, Vivienne. All the decisions I made as Inquisitor-- how many were truly _mine_?“ She sets the plate aside, untouched.

Vivienne arches an elegant eyebrow. “You suspect he was controlling you through the Anchor?”

“No, no. Not that.” Ellorian sighs tiredly. “He was very concerned that not be the case, I think. But there are subtler ways to influence-- he was so _encouraging_.” It takes an effort to keep her shoulders squared, her chin level with the floor. “Anytime I doubted my path he was always there to comfort me, to whisper compliments in my ear.” _You have a rare and marvelous spirit._ “I was so blindly confident-- so besotted I never once considered he could be _using_ me. How much have I unwittingly aided him in his goals already?”

“I sometimes forget just how young you are, and how sheltered.” Vivienne’s voice is soft and sympathetic. “Among the Dalish you likely saw far more bloodshed than other girls your age. Intrigue is a different kind of violence, though no less brutal. You cannot let this break your confidence, darling. The world has need of the Herald of Andraste, now more than ever.”

“At this point, I’m more worried about being a liability.”

“An imbecile trusts everyone, but only the deranged trust no one. Judging whom to trust is a hard lesson to learn, perhaps the hardest for anyone to face, but you know him for what he is now. _Learn_ from this experience and you won’t fall prey so easily ever again. Make this a _strength_ and you will have mastered the very essence of the Game.” Vivienne pours a fresh cup of tea. “Here. Yours is likely cold by now, and reheating it with a fire spell will spoil the flavor.”

Vivienne waits for Ellorian to take a warming sip of tea before continuing. “The Fade is his place of power, you say? Use that to your advantage as well. Let him feel safe and in control, let him underestimate you as he has always done, and the Maker only knows what tidbits of information he will accidentally betray.”

“With so much at stake, do we dare risk it?”

“With so much at stake, my dear, we need any advantage we can find. Had you kept the Inquisition as a chantry task force--”

“But with the risk of corruption in the ranks--” Ellorian interrupts.

Vivienne patiently waits for her to quiet herself. “Spies are an inevitability, my dear. I believe that has been made abundantly clear to you. It was easier with Corypheus; with no hope of secrecy our only option was to outmaneuver him.” She takes another sip of tea. “With Fen’Harel it is different: his mastery of the Eluvians means we cannot hope to outmaneuver him. What we need is information, and you have a perfect opportunity to obtain it.”

“And now that I’m no longer the Inquisitor, I’m expendable.”

Vivienne sets her cup down fiercely. “Absolutely not. The Inquisition would have afforded you much more influence and resources, true. I won’t pretend you haven’t erred in that regard. But The Herald of Andraste is still a political fulcrum on which the southern nations turn.”

Ellorian sips her tea, wishing she could drain the cup in one great gulp, wishing it were something stronger. “It’s no secret Solas and I were lovers. Would the nations truly trust me to oppose him? The Qunari thought the Inquisition entirely corrupt just for the association.” _I was so obliviously in love with him. Do I trust myself to be objective?_

“I am glad you are taking the time to think this through, my dear. The Ellorian of two years ago was not nearly this self-aware.” Vivienne’s smile is motherly. “And while I am proud of your composure under these trying circumstances, you need not put on a brave face for _me_. I know you are overwhelmed, darling. There is no shame in admitting that here, between friends.”

“I feel like I’m walking Skyhold’s battlements blindfolded. Any second I could go flying over a parapet.” _And I’d take the whole world with me._ Ellorian slouches in her armchair.

“And providing you with the Somnarus potion would be tantamount to shoving you off the walls myself. There are better ways to cope.” Vivienne taps her lips with a fingernail polished like a seashell. “You no longer need to wear your sling, yes?”

“I’ve built up enough muscle in my shoulder to handle the extra weight. Sera keeps laughing about having one arm bigger than the other, but I don’t get the joke and Samson wouldn’t explain it to me.” Ellorian shakes her head in puzzlement.

“Oh, you are _precious_.” Vivienne hides her smile behind her hand. “I propose a compromise, my dear. Promise me you will cut back on the potion a little more every day and I will spare Commander Helaine from her normal duties so she may instruct you. If she cannot get you back into proper form, she will at least exhaust you enough to sleep soundly.”

_Am I truly well enough to fight again?_ “I promise, Vivienne.”

“You will feel more like yourself with a weapon in hand and after a few nights of real sleep.” Vivienne stands and smooths her skirts. “Now come along. It is nearly dinner time and Laurent sent an excellent bottle of red from Ghislain. Shall we open it, darling?”

Ellorian gives her a tremulous smile. “That sounds lovely.”

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Special thanks to Arcanista and Swindlefingers for editing!


	4. In Which a Hunter is Transformed into a Stag

**Chapter 4: In Which a Hunter is Transformed into a Stag**

Vivienne is entirely right, of course. Ellorian is an aravel under full sail with staff in hand, lighter at heart under the weight of dragonscale armor. 

_I was born to be a sword for the People._

The spirit blade clutched in her left gauntlet carries no weight but her will. As Ellorian hones her focus, so does the blade sharpen to a fine razor’s edge. 

_My magic marks me as duty bound to serve and defend the clan for all of my days._

With a fierce slice to the left she gouges a deep furrow into the training dummy, rending the burlap covering as if it were spidersilk. Ellorian returns the blade to an upraised position with a flick of her wrist. The spectral outline of the sword whirls in a crescent blur. 

_My strength tempered to purpose so that the People may live free._

This time she forges in her mind a blade with a triangular edge: a wedge meant to cleave plate and muscle and bone. 

_Never again…_

Lunging forward, she brings the blade down in a savage overhead strike. 

_...shall we submit!_

Her blow takes the dummy where neck meets shoulder; the dummy sunders with a snap of splintering wood, riven nearly to the waist. If Ellorian were a swordswoman and not a mage, she would have needed to brace her foot against the dummy’s chest to lever a physical blade out again. Instead, she releases her hold on the spell and steps back, spirit blade dissipating into glittering motes of light. _Ready yourself, Fen’Harel. I swore this oath long before I ever loved you. I mean to keep it._

“Well struck.”

Commander Helaine stands as if she is perpetually set to march in a parade: straight and slender as a rapier, armor polished until the reflective afternoon light blazes like the sunburst on her staff. “The arm?”

Ellorian rolls her left shoulder. “It’s heavier than I’m used to, but the exercises the healers recommended will account for that in time.”

Helaine crosses the practice yard in crisp strides, greaves ringing on the cobblestones with every step. Though she and Ellorian are of a height, her very presence makes her seem the taller of the two. 

_How does she manage that, I wonder?_ Ellorian dutifully shucks her left gauntlet and holds out the prosthetic for inspection at Helaine’s imperious gesture. 

The older woman runs her thumb firmly along the seam where instrument and flesh merge. “Pain?”

“Some,” says Ellorian. “Just lingering tenderness from the surgery, I suppose.” 

“I’ve never seen the like. As if you never lost the arm.” Helaine guides the elbow in ever widening circles, testing the joint’s range of movement. “How did they manage to salvage the ligaments?” 

Ellorian irritably ignores the other woman’s assessment of her abilities. _It is merely artifice. It will never be a living limb._ “From what I understand, my own ligaments were grafted to the dragonbone skeleton. The tendons are substituted, of course. Silverite and lyrium, spun fine as thread.” Her voice is clipped and cool, as if reporting on a weapon requisition. 

Helaine’s inspection moves to the shoulder, her fingers digging into muscles loosened after an hour’s warm up. “No stiffness. Not yet, anyway.” She grins. “Care to spar? Blunted blades only, mind.”

Quickly re-donning her gauntlet, Ellorian returns the grin with a fierce smile of her own. _At last._ “First to break barrier wins.” She adjusts her right-handed grip on her staff and steps back, summoning a spirit blade to her left fist, edge rounded for the friendly fight. 

Helaine charges instantly, as is her way. _Strike first. Strike hard. Break the enemy line._

During their first lessons in Skyhold’s courtyard, Helaine’s teachings carried an edge Ellorian did not expect; while none among the Dalish would dare risk injury to a clan’s First, the Commander showed no such apprehension regarding her pupil. 

“To be a Knight-Enchanter is to lead from the front, not huddling behind a shield wall. We do not flinch from our enemies,” Helaine told her, expression stern. “We inspire respect from our allies and put the fear of the Maker in our foes. You cannot learn to do either wrapped in swaddling.”

Ellorian had taken the discipline to heart. 

She gathers her mana and meets Helaine’s rush head-on, her barrier humming against her skin. Ellorian feels invincible in moments like these, cocooned in a fortress of her own power. Their blades clash once, twice, then both retreat to circle warily, watching for the next break in the other’s defense. 

“Too slow. You’ve gone soft since last we sparred.” Helaine feints left. 

Among the Dalish, an accusation of sloth would be enough to provoke heated shouts or drawn knives. Ellorian does not flinch from taunt or bluff, instead she correctly reads the other woman’s thrust and swiftly parries. Her answering riposte scores a slice across the barrier protecting Helaine’s chest. “Which of us is soft now?” she asks, her laugh like silver bells. Stepping back, she circles her foe again. _Demand your opponent’s attention. You are the bulwark on which lesser warriors break themselves._

Helaine mirrors her step for step, cat quick and alert. Her barrier shimmers and distorts to fill the gap left by Ellorian’s strike, repairing the vulnerability. “Joke as you like, your arm _is_ slower. You’ll need to compensate for the extra weight.” She counters Ellorian’s next three cuts with ease. “See?”

 _This hunk of metal is_ not _my arm._ Ellorian lets the thought skate across the serenity that overtakes her in a fight. She clears her mind of anything but the elegant exchange of strike and counterstrike, loses herself in bringing her considerable focus and mana to bear in their clash of wills. In this moment there is no shadow war, no fear, no Dread Wolf come to tear down the world. A counter-riposte from Helaine earns her a slash across the thigh, but Ellorian nets a further two blows to her opponent’s barrier with a flurry of quick attacks. _A Knight-Enchanter controls the tempo of a fight, she does not dance to another’s tune._

This is a dance Ellorian knows well indeed: her steps fall light as autumn leaves in time to the thundering drumbeat of her heart. Back and forth, each dancer slowly advances. A nick here, a scratch there, a blow hard enough for barriers to flare in coruscating light. All sense of time falls away. Ellorian sees only her opponent, hears only her own harsh breathing. _I am a sword of the People._

The clash comes to a head swiftly and suddenly. The spectral blades grind hilt to hilt, each woman straining for advantage, for an inch of height to cast her rival down. If her opponent’s sword was solid steel, Ellorian could have snaked her blade around it and _heaved_ , sending it flying. _Your blade is an extension of your will. A Knight-Enchanter cannot be disarmed._ Instead she grits her teeth and shoves all of her weight behind her left shoulder, muscles quaking with effort. The moment stretches on into indeterminate hours, neither willing to yield. _That is not the Knight-Enchanter’s way._ Ellorian feels her lips peel back into a snarl, a line of burning agony circles her straining bicep at the juncture of flesh and silverite.

“ _Stop!_ ” 

Sera’s roar of anger only breaks Ellorian’s focus for a split second, but that split second is all Helaine needs. Her spectral sword comes down and splits the remains of Ellorian’s barrier with a crackle and hiss of flying sparks. Ellorian staggers back, nearly dropping her staff. 

“What the _fuck_ are you doing?” Sera doesn’t lower her voice one iota. “What kind of _idiot_ \--”

“I was winning until _you_ showed up!” Ellorian snaps, pain and irritation stoking her temper in equal measure. “If you hadn’t distracted me--”

“You were hurting yourself, you daft twit!” Sera plants herself squarely in Ellorian’s way, looming over the shorter woman. “I can point you at half a dozen noble cunts if it’s a fight you want. But I won’t stand here and let you hurt yourself over your bloody _pride_!” She spins on her heel and stomps back to the house, swearing and muttering under her breath the whole way. 

Ellorian watches her go; the euphoria of the fight is fading fast, souring in her stomach. Her left shoulder is ablaze. Sighing heavily, she strips off her gauntlets and tucks them behind her belt. “I think we’re done for today, Helaine. My shoulder is done in.”

“The fault is mine.” Helaine twists a loose lock of dark hair between her fingers and tucks it neatly back into her bun. “I should have been more watchful for this.”

“For what? Going _corps à corps_?” Ellorian goes to the low stone wall surrounding the yard where her waterskins sit in the shade. She tosses one to Helaine and pops the cork on the other, gulping the cool water greedily under the hot summer sun. “I won’t tell Vivienne if you don’t.”

Helaine snorts a wry laugh. “It takes a braver woman than I to lie to Madame de Fer.” She takes a slow sip of water. “I should have anticipated this outcome. I know your nature. If there was ever a pupil of mine _too_ suited to our way of life...” She joins Ellorian at the wall and leans against it, shaking her head. “Your will is a formidable weapon, your ability to concentrate central in a fight. Without either of these, you could not have mastered in three years what it takes mages twice your age five or more to learn. There is strength in that, but also weakness.” 

“What do you mean?” Ellorian hoists herself to the top of the wall, ignoring the protesting muscles in her shoulder. Her feet dangle down, bare toes skimming the air as she kicks her legs back and forth. 

“Even pain could not break your concentration, or your spells would have wavered. Had you faltered at all, I would have known to call an end to the match. It is possible for one to be _too_ focused, to the point of foolishness and self-injury.” 

_Your indomitable focus is an enjoyable side benefit._ Ellorian shivers at the caressing memory of Solas’ voice, though the afternoon is uncomfortably warm. _I have yet to see it dominated. I imagine that the sight would be...fascinating._ She remembers the slow, satisfied curl of his smile at her speechlessness and shy blushes; remembers the long nights, months later, when she devoted her focus entirely to him and her love for him without reservation. 

_I was blind and deaf and_ stupid _with love. Things would be so much simpler if my heart and focus had turned to another._

“I should apologize to Sera.” Ellorian hops off the wall. “I’ll see you in two days?”

“Two days.” Helaine says. She does not ask about the shadows in Ellorian’s eyes.

Ellorian trudges back to the house, already devising ways make amends with her prickly friend. 

Sera isn’t in Dagna’s workshop. Nor is she in the kitchens or the larder. After two circuits of Sera’s usual haunts, Ellorian finally concludes that Sera is avoiding her. _I’ll grovel after a bath and a nap. We could both use the time to cool off._

As it happens, she needn’t have spent so much time searching. She can hear Sera’s voice coming from within Ellorian’s own bedchamber. 

“She’s a mage, she can heat her own frigging water. She’ll need help undressing, but be careful with the shoulder--” Sera cuts off when she hears the door open on creaking hinges. 

When Ellorian peeks into her room, she finds Dera and Kariel filling the large copper bathtub with buckets of fresh water and Sera rummaging through her armoire.

“You!” Sera strides forward to shake a finger under Ellorian’s nose like a chantry mother. “You get in that tub and then put your sling back on.” She has one of Ellorian’s silk nightgowns in her other hand. “Don’t argue with me--”

“Sera, I’m sorry I shouted at you.” 

Sera shuffles from foot to foot, caught off guard by the apology. “Why’d you do it? You could’ve called the match at any time. All this moping about no progress or whatever and then you just go crazy with fighting?”

“I felt like me again.” Ellorian knows her excuse is as frail as a butterfly’s wing. “It was such a rush to be back in the thick of things, I was so happy...” She swallows past the lump in her throat. _I was able to forget about everything, just for a little while. Just for a moment. I could pretend that none of this ever happened, that I was whole again. A First of Clan Lavellan able to fulfill her duties once more._ “Anyway, I’m sorry I yelled. You didn’t deserve that.”

“Yeah well. Sorry I yelled too.” Sera scrubs a hand through her short hair, ends neatly trimmed by Dagna’s careful hands. “Look, you can make it up to me. Remember the bint from Leliana’s letter? Josseline de Courvoisier? She’ll be at some ball in three nights and her house wide open for a bit of fun. Maybe we can find out where all the elves went while we’re poking around.”

Ellorian is all too aware of her maids within earshot, heads down and seemingly absorbed in folding towelling and adding scented oils to the bathwater. _Too late. If one or both is spying for someone then they have already heard enough._ “Sounds like a plan.” 

Sera grins. “A plan? Not really.” She laughs outright at Ellorian’s consternation. “Part of being a Jenny. You’ll see.” And with that she skips from the room, calling for her Widdle. 

Sighing, Ellorian allows Kariel to unbuckle her armor. She bites her tongue to stifle a whine when she raises her arms to get the sweat-damp undertunic over her head. Her left shoulder is stiff and tender to the touch. _A soak in hot water would be wonderful._

Ellorian sets a fire rune at the bottom of the tub until condensation beads on the glass windowpanes. The air is sultry with lavender-scented steam when she gratefully lowers herself into the blissful warmth. Dera lays a cloth soaked with cool water on her brow and lathers Ellorian’s hair with sweet almond soap, fingers gently scraping along her scalp and behind her ears. 

By the time Ellorian is scrubbed and combed and put to bed in a filmy nightgown, she is already more than half asleep. She snuggles into her goose-feather pillow as the maids shut the door behind them and lets all thought drift away like petals on the wind. 

Ellorian digs her toes into the rich loam of the Emerald Graves and savors the fresh scents of embrium and crushed grass as she runs, dashing joyfully over the tangled web of roots that mark the cairns of her forbears. She darts between trees, sentinels of a thousand years of history, clad in the luminous starlight that streams through the thick canopy to dapple on her bare skin. In the manner of all dreams she nearly weightless, soaring over boulders and fallen logs taller than her own height in a single graceful bound. 

_I am a child of this forest. Here I am safe. Here I am free._

She runs for what seems like hours, the forest blurring past her peripheral vision, until she comes to the open ground of the Rush of Sighs. There she slows and wades up to her knees in cool water, content to listen to the roar of the waterfall churning the river to white froth before tumbling down into the valley below. In the manner of all dreams she is neither tired nor thirsty, but she bends at the waist to cup clear water in her hands--both living and whole-- and drink. 

From the corner of her eye, she sees a flash of movement. Ellorian lets her hands drop and spins on her heel to follow the movement, crystal beads of water cascading over her chin and down her breasts and belly. 

A great white wolf watches her from the shadow of the woods, his shining blue eyes steady on her form. For a long moment all Ellorian can do is stare back, unblinking. 

Then he is gone, vanished like a wisp of fog around an ancient oak. In the manner of all dreams, Ellorian is scrambling onto the riverbank faster than her own thoughts can follow, fingers tangled in a fine thread-of-silver net. She leaves wet footprints in the plush moss as she gives chase. _A wolf should not walk over the bones of my kin. He does not belong here._

He leads her through thickets of trees carved with twisting vallaslin, watchful and foreboding. Stray twigs, gnarled with age, claw at her cheekbones where once she carried Mythal’s branches of ink and blood. Her face burns with shame. _I will not be easy meat again!_

Ellorian pursues her quarry for miles and miles, catching a glimpse of sleek white fur just ahead but never able to close the distance, to get close enough to cast her net and end the game. She hunts him for what seems like days beneath undying starlight until, breathless and dizzy, she stumbles to the base of the Silver Falls. The wolf is gone without a trace, his broad pawprints simply vanishing between one step and the next. _This is a dream. Of course wolves can fly._

She knows, in the manner of all dreams, that she has failed. The net melts between her fingers, silver thread streaming to join the silvery waters of the river gently lapping against her thighs. The harsh light of the moon’s reflection makes shadows longer, twisting the landscape around Ellorian as she leans her forehead against the rough stone of the cliff and lets the inexorable weight of the falls wash over her. _Why did I think I could hunt a wolf with a net? He would just chew through the ropes._

Ellorian runs her left hand over her face, skin smooth and supple where in waking no softness remains. She cannot say if the water she brushes from her eyes are tears. _Run around like a mare on a lead. Again. When will I learn not to chase a wolf?_ An icy breeze ruffles the river’s surface, the sudden chill pebbling her bare skin. When it passes through the rustling leaves overhead, the wind seems to sigh her name. 

_The Fade is his place of power. Use that to your advantage. Let him feel safe and in control, let him underestimate you as he has always done._

Though she is no shemlen woman to feel shame in her unclothed form, the thought makes her want to cross her arms over her nakedness, to hide the tender parts of her body with her hands. Ellorian bites her lip and closes her eyes. 

_It is so much easier to be the hunter than the stag._

She steps backwards, away from the tumult of the falls and the solid shelter of the cliff face into open air. Her breath comes quick and shallow. It takes every ounce of Ellorian’s will to reach her trembling hands above her head as high as she can, to cant her hips and stretch ever upward until her back arches. She lifts her chin to bare her throat and _waits_ , quivering. _Who will come? Man or wolf?_

And then there are eyes on her again. Ellorian knows it in her bones, nerves alight and prickling. She keeps her eyes screwed shut and her limbs still. _Which wolf comes, white or black?_

Exposed, vulnerable, she feels his gaze like a thousand caressing hands. Ellorian bites the inside of her cheek until her mouth floods with the bitter taste of copper. _Will he kiss the blood from my lips?_

With no warning he is behind her, the warmth radiating from his skin a heat like the memory of fire. He is taller than most men, far taller than she, and Ellorian knows his head must be bowed like a penitent at prayer for his hot breath to stir the fine hairs at the back of her neck. Her heart flutters like a raven with one wing. _Why will he not speak?_

Terror and grief have her by the throat, each hand of misery strangling her voice to nothing. She breathes one word.

“Solas.” 

He sucks in a ragged breath of his own at his name on her tongue. Should she move a hair in any direction, his lips will brush her throat. _Strike!_ a small voice screams madly in the back of her mind. _Your duty is clear, sword of the People! Strike now!_

When she spins to confront him, her hands grasp only empty air. 

Ellorian wakes in suffocating darkness, her jaw clenched so hard it takes several heartbeats before she can open her mouth to gasp lungfuls of stale air. Her nightgown and bedsheets are tangled around her waist, driving her panic higher and higher. She thrashes violently to free herself, nearly throwing herself off the bed in her haste. 

There are eyes watching her from the shadows of her bedroom; the last of her courage gives out like rotted wood. Ellorian gropes blindly for the Somnarus potion on her bedside table, seeking only sweet, thoughtless oblivion. _I’m sorry, Vivienne. I don’t have the strength to dangle myself in the Dread Wolf’s jaws. I can’t. I can’t._

In the frenzied grip of terror, she doesn’t realize she finds the crystal flask with her silverite hand until she hears the glass tinkling to the tabletop in tiny shards. Viscous potion oozes between her fingers but she cannot feel it, nor can she feel the tiny pieces of glass caught in the cracks of the mechanism. _An instrument is not a living hand._ Bile rises in her throat. 

Her right hand closes over Dorian’s message crystal; her fingers grip the surrounding golden locket so tightly the pattern of embossed runes imprint themselves on her palm. In this moment she aches to activate it, to hear Dorian’s laugh and sarcastic wit. _But I won’t, will I? Dorian dedicated his life for country and duty. How can I tell him how I’ve failed in mine?_ She could not bear to hear the disappointment in his voice, not now. 

Ellorian puts her back to the wood panelled wall and slides to the floor, shoulders shaking with silent sobs. _I am so tired of being afraid._

Alone in the dark, it takes an eternity for the sun to rise. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Special thanks to Arcanista for helping me edit <3
> 
> Read about Artemis and Actaeon  
> https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Actaeon


	5. In Which a Fruit is Plucked from the Tree of Knowledge

**Chapter 5: In Which a Fruit is Plucked from the Tree of Knowledge**

Ellorian wishes she could pray.

A year ago, she might have: to Dirthamen for wisdom, to sweet Sylaise for a light to guide her way, to Elgar’nan for a swift sunrise and an end to night and dreaming. The familiar invocations are there at the tip of her tongue, a loaf of warm bread in the hands of the starving. 

_I will not mouth empty words of praise to the undeserving. And yet…_

And yet. 

She remembers learning each prayer, obediently repeating the phrases of her elders in solemn speech or in joyous song, following the words with her fingers in brittle vellum tomes. There were ink smudges in places where her mother and countless other Firsts traced fingers over the same glyphs during their own training, a living chain of shared heritage spanning hundreds of years. 

She remembers the day she truly understood her duty as First, carrying the weight of the clan’s grief after a bandit raid. Seventeen sapling trees planted in a row; the last over the grave of her father. She had given comfort to the survivors as best she could while holding back her own tears, murmured entreaties to Falon’din to guide the souls of the honored dead safely to the Beyond. The words were so small against the clan’s collective sorrow, but enough to shelter by in a world where elves are hunted for sport. 

She remembers, and tastes the bitterness of truth.

_We died for this, rather than submit to the chantry. We died for gods no better than our Tevinter slave owners. All our prayers for naught._

To turn to the Maker for succor now...Ellorian will not spit on the sacrifice of her ancestors, however false their beliefs. Besides, she has no use for a god who turned his back on his imperfect children in a petulant fit of temper. 

_Then again, perhaps absentee gods are preferable to ones who would dip their fingers in mortal blood to paint a more vibrant mural._

Her spine curves under the crushing pressure of exhaustion. Two days of listlessly shuffling reports around her desk accomplish nothing; Ellorian cannot remember the contents of her correspondence if her life depended on it. _And depending on how dire those reports are, it very well might._ She can’t bring herself to care. 

Eventually even terror yields to the needs of the body. No amount of stubbornness stops sleep forever; after two days Ellorian collapses. Mostly she forgets, but some dreams she remembers. A golden dragon roaring, claws carving furrows into stone. Brushing leaves from Cole’s hat and laughing at his shy smile. Kissing Solas in the snow, slow and sweet. 

Ellorian wakes from the last, weeping. 

_Does it amuse him, to taunt me with our happier memories? Or was that a dream of my own making?_

Everything aches. Ellorian lifts herself onto creaky elbows, glaring into the last red light of the dying sunset streaming through her windowpanes. Her head feels too heavy for her neck. 

_Do I even want to know for certain?_

It takes Ellorian so much longer to put her armor on, these days. By the time her fumbling fingers manage to buckle her last belt, only a bleeding slash of sun remains in a bruised sky. Ellorian tucks her gauntlets behind her belt, takes up her staff, and makes her way downstairs, closing the bedroom door firmly behind her. 

_I’ve had enough of dreaming. My business is with the waking world tonight._

Sera looks up from fiddling with the fletching on an arrow when Ellorian opens the dining room door. “Well _good morning_ , _sunshine_. Wasn’t sure you were gonna make it.” Her voice is too loud and too chipper for Ellorian’s headache. 

“Yeah, yeah.” Ellorian yawns and rolls her left shoulder until it gives a satisfying pop. “So what’s this not-plan, then? The one that’s going to get us into the Courvoisier house without calling every guard in Val Royeaux down on our heads?”

“Ugh, you’re overthinking again.” Sera slides the arrow back into her quiver. “C’mon, fussy-britches, I’ll explain on the way.” She hands Ellorian a cloak and heads for the door, slinging her own over her shoulders.

Though the sun sleeps beneath the horizon, the streets of Val Royeaux are still bustling; shops taking in their displays and street vendors locking up their stalls. Apprentices dash across wide boulevards, arms full of crates or sacks of goods. Lanterns on each street corner give enough light to see by from the deep hood of Ellorian’s cloak, casting long shadows into the unlit alleyways.

Half a street down from the house, one lonely vendor is still open for customers. An elderly elven woman offers a tray of scarlet summer apples with a homely smile and a quick pitch. “Fresh from the Dales, dear girl! Only the freshest from Old Linne!” Ellorian gives her a silver in exchange for two, only slightly wizened from their time under the baking sun, and hands one to Sera. 

“Not bad,” Sera mumbles around a mouthful. “But you paid at least twice as much as you should’ve.”

Ellorian savors her first bite: the apple’s crisp skin yields to a flood of sweetness, sticky on her fingers. “I have the coin.” _And that old woman probably lives hand to mouth, if she’s out selling her wares alone this late at night._

Sera turns north at the next square, heading away from the harbor and deeper into the trade district. They pass rows of closing shops: a cutler packing away her knives, a tailor gathering up bolts of wool, a butcher scrubbing blood and viscera from his cutting boards. Only the taverns are brightly lit, cheerful candlelight and raucous laughter leaking through windows and open doorways, welcoming the weary. 

“So aren’t the cloaks a little suspicious looking?” Ellorian takes another bite of fruit. 

Never one to waste food, Sera swallows the last of her apple: seeds, stem and all. “Not really. Plenty of people in Val Royeaux who don’t want to be seen. It’s dangerous to be an elf out of the Alienage at night, especially a woman.” She jabs Ellorian in the side with a bony finger, hard enough that Ellorian can feel it through her scale mail. “Besides, your armor’s too shiny to be sneaky. It’s just a good thing you don’t wear big clompy metal boots, or we’d really be in trouble.”

“Oh? And why is that?” Ellorian sidesteps a puddle of...something. She isn’t sure what, only that she doesn’t want it touching her bare toes. _I’d better keep my prosthetic under the cloak. Sera’s right. In this light any metal will catch the eye._ Ellorian draws her cloak closer.

Sera shakes her head. “Not here.”

A hooded man rounds the next corner, moving quickly. Ellorian tries to sidestep again but he leans in to clip her shoulder roughly, knocking her off balance and causing her to stagger into Sera. “Hey! Watch it!”

The man turns to spit at her feet. “Go back to the Circle, _mage_.” He snarls the last word like a curse before hustling down the street.

Ellorian sighs and pulls the hood of her cloak farther up, wishing she could bare her teeth like the three twining dragon heads atop her staff. The remains of her apple are gone, likely rolled away into the muck of the street. 

“For a moment, I thought you might set him on fire. Your face.” Sera pulls an exaggerated frown in imitation, mouth drawn down in a caricature of anger. 

“I’d only be proving him right.” Ellorian can almost hear her mother’s voice, lecturing. _Magic is a gift of the gods, da’len; those who would abuse a gift of the gods are not fit to lead, and are cast out for the Dread Wolf to find._ “I won’t lie though, the thought _is_ tempting.”

Sera’s laugh is only a little unsteady after three years of friendship with a mage. “Right.”

They walk in silence for the next hour, passing into the wealthier districts of Val Royeaux. Here the shops belong to goldsmiths and spice merchants, fanciful wrought iron signs replacing the painted wood of poorer craftsmen to proclaim their trade. There are guards on each premise, hands gripping sword hilts at the approach of two figures on foot, in this place where patrons are wealthy enough for horses or coaches.

Sera turns abruptly into an alleyway next to a discreet stone building carved with gentle scrollwork. The sign is luridly gilded and fashioned into a nude woman reclining on a divan, holding…

“Is that an _eggplant_? What do they sell here?” Ellorian keeps her voice at an incredulous whisper as they make their way into the deepening dark of the alley. A rat skitters underfoot, hunting for scraps. _Orlesians. So intent on their frippery they never notice the filth under all that gold. This city is rotten to its core._

“I’ll tell you when you’re older.” Sera’s eyes reflect what little light remains from the streetlamps and moon, crinkled at the corners in merriment. “C’mon, we’re almost there.” Stepping over piles of refuse, she nimbly scrambles up a rough stone wall and onto the mystery shop’s roof. Her soft-soled shoes make no noise on the slate as she crouches, hand outstretched for Ellorian’s staff. “Can you make it?”

Ellorian wordlessly hands her the staff and searches the pitted mortar for handholds. _I don’t have much choice, do I?_ Her left shoulder burns as she climbs, the mechanism too weak to fully hold her weight and too unfeeling for its grip to be trusted. About three-quarters of the way up, a thin ledge crumbles under the implacable grip of her metal fingers; Ellorian’s stomach lurches in panic. She flails for purchase, silverite glancing off stone until she finds the top of the wall, living arm wrenched with the effort of keeping her from tumbling to the cobblestone below. She hauls herself up to the roof, nearly panting with relief at her near miss.

Sera motions for Ellorian to stay low and returns her staff. “From here on out, keep close and keep quiet. Watch your footing, the tiles can be slippery.”

Ellorian nods, her heart beating erratically in her chest. _This must be why she dislikes thick-soled boots. Too much noise._

The pair move like moonshadows across the rooftops, steps light on the pads of their feet. Sera goes first, pointing to loose tiles or slick patches of moss. She seems completely at home above the sleeping city, sailing from rooftop to rooftop like an arrow speeding from the bow. Ellorian follows more gingerly, carefully staying away from ledges until she needs to drop down or climb higher. _How blissfully unaware the people remain. They sleep so soundly they never notice the rabbits hopping over their heads._

They climb one last slanted roof, steeper than the rest, and carefully slide down the other side. Ellorian can hear horses stamping below, smells the manure and dusty odor of old hay. _A stable._ Sera holds up her hand, palm out. _Wait._ She points the first two fingers of the hand back to her face. _Watch._

Sera shimmies on her belly along the edge, a two story drop on her right. Gripping the ledge with both hands, she swings both her legs to dangle over the edge, then disappears from sight. 

Alarmed, Ellorian swiftly drops to her belly, her staff clattering against the roof. When she peeks over the edge, Sera is leaning out of an open window directly underneath her, hand out for her staff again. Ellorian slides the staff down to her and tries to gather moisture into her suddenly bone dry mouth. 

_I can do this. I’ve climbed much higher than this looking for those damned shards._ The thought doesn’t bring Ellorian much comfort. _I had two arms then. Two arms and no brains in my head._ She wipes her sweaty palms on her cloak and sets her grip. _Here goes nothing._ She swings her legs over into open air. 

Immediately, Ellorian can feel Sera’s hands guiding her feet to the window sill. Slowly, Ellorian lowers herself into the open window, heart thudding in her ears and arms screaming with the strain. She almost collapses to the straw-covered floor of the hayloft when she finally gets onto solid ground, legs jellied with the remnants of fear. _You’ve stared down dragons, woman. Hold it together._

“Maker preserve me, it’s the Herald of Andraste!”

They are not alone. A human in servant’s homespun clutches Ellorian’s staff in both hands, his eyes intent on Ellorian’s face. It makes her uneasy somehow, as if he’s trying to brand her image into his memory through righteous fervor alone. 

Smiling her courtier’s gentle smile, Ellorian holds out her living hand for her staff, palm up. “None of that, now. I’m just another Jenny tonight. What’s your name?”

He drops to his knees in the straw, staff upraised in tribute. “C-colin, Your Worship. We never dreamed--the Maker must have sent you to us in our time of need!” His gaze never wavers from her face. 

A year ago, she might have denied his faith, frightened of having another woman’s spiritual skin sewn around her like a shroud, leaving no trace of “Ellorian” behind. Instead she receives his offering with all the solemnity she can muster. “I will do what I can to help, Colin.” _I know what it is to be bereft of my gods. Let him believe the Maker hears his prayers. Let him have that false comfort._

“T-thank you, Your Worship! The Lady, she can’t keep doing this to us! I have a wife, and ch-children! If something happens to me what will they do? It’s the noose for a man who raises his hand against a noble!” Colin scrambles to his feet, babbling. A horse whickers at the volume. 

“Keep your voice down. We can’t do anything if you get us caught by the rest of the house!” Sera’s eyes flicker to Ellorian, something unreadable in her expression. “How many house guards do we need to dodge?”

“Not a one! Only the steward, Lionel, and he’s asleep! Cook put something in his food and down he went, snoring!” Colin clambers down a ladder to the stable floor and trots out the door. “This way, Your Worship!”

Sera stops Ellorian from following with a hand on her shoulder, her voice pitched low. “Something’s not right here. No guards to watch the house while the lady is away? Only one upper servant to run and tell tales? And I never mentioned _you’d_ be here.”

Ellorian dons her gauntlets and grips her staff, gathering her mana like the vortex of a storm in her chest. She can have a barrier over both of them in the blink of an eye. “Trap?” _It’s possible Colin just recognized me. It’s possible._

“I don’t know.” Sera checks the tension on her bowstring. “The Friend who called for help when I visited six months back was named _Gilles_. Helped me sneak past the hired muscle.” She snorts a derisive laugh. “This Colin doesn’t know his arse from a hole in the ground.”

“We’ll be careful.” Ellorian keeps her barrier on the edge of casting, the magic a sharp sweetness akin to pain humming just under her skin. They follow Colin out into the stableyard, weapons at the ready. 

He beckons them from the arched doorway of Maîson Courvoisier, three stories of plaster façade and gold leaf. A house guard in full plate stands beside him, helmet tucked under his arm. _A house like this must have two dozen guards. The two of us will never be able to fight our way out._ The chills down Ellorian’s spine abate somewhat when the guard also gestures them forward, calling “The Maker be praised! Herald, we need your help.”

They are welcomed into a jewel box of an entry hall, patterned marble floors covered in sumptuous fringed carpet and twining balustrades carved into fanciful sprays of flowers. At least a score of people gather around the door to greet them, servants in patched woolens and starched livery, cooks and undercooks in aprons stained with the day’s sauces, their buzzing chatter reverberating against the hall’s high vaulted ceilings.

“The Herald of Andraste--”

“--here to protect us, I know it!”

“The city guard will have to listen to her--”

“--can’t go on like this. Any one of us could be next--”

“He’s down here, your Worship!” Colin vanishes down a flight of wooden stairs. “Hurry!”

Ellorian hides her unease well after years of Vivienne’s coaching, keeps her back straight and her face serene by long practice. _The appearance of competence is as important as actual competence, my dear. Your followers cannot be confident in you if you do not appear confident in yourself._ Her temples throb from holding her barrier for so long without casting. She follows Colin, doing her best to ignore the gaggle of onlookers crowding behind her, whispering. 

They pass through the servant’s quarters, where more frightened eyes peek at them around splintered doorframes. The rough wooden floorboards creak underfoot and the air smells of mold and sweat, of too many unwashed people living in cramped quarters with no sunlight. And she can smell something else, underneath, coppery on the tongue. _Blood._ Ellorian squashes the urge to quicken her pace. _The servants are nervous enough. They will never believe I can protect them if I act like an anxious child._ She keeps her steps measured and a loose grip on her staff, a swan gliding through a mass of startled hens. 

The deeper into the rabbit’s warren they descend, the stronger the scents of blood and excrement become. Colin turns into a last, lonely corridor; the ceiling beams bulge inward under the weight of stone above so that he must stoop or hit his head. Here, the doors each have locks on the _outside_. Colin gestures to one, wringing his hands. “Can you get him out?”

Sera wastes no time pulling out her tools and getting to work, lips pursed in concentration.

Colin shakes his head. “Won’t work, the lock’s been--”

The pick glows red hot, and Sera drops it, swearing. 

“--magicked. “ Colin finishes lamely. “I t-tried to tell you--”

“I know you did, Colin. No one blames you.” Ellorian keeps her tone soft and reassuring. She wants to hold her nose against the wet stink of filth and decay. “Stand back, both of you.”

Ellorian braces her right hand against the wooden door and lets frost trickle through her fingers until her breath comes in puffs of white and the doorframe groans under the pressure of expanding wood. The ice outlines the spelled lock where her magic cannot touch, sliding across like rain beating against a slate roof. “Whatever idiot warded the lock forgot to spell the door itself.” She can hear Colin muttering prayers under his breath, no doubt unnerved at seeing a mage work up-close. Ellorian passes her staff back to her right hand and summons her spectral sword in her left. _I hope whoever is in there is far enough back!_ She brings it down with all her strength against the frozen door, which shatters into chips that spray across half the cramped hall. 

Quick as a flash Colin is beside her, tearing at the remnants of the door with his bare hands. “We have to get him out, he’s hurt bad!” As the debris clears, Ellorian makes out a mop of curly dark hair and rounded ears sticking out of a heap of bloody rags. 

“That’s Gilles!” Sera’s voice is hard and demanding. “How long has he been down here?” She grips her bow so hard her knuckles turn white. “How long?”

Ellorian doesn’t wait for Colin’s answer. As soon as the opening is wide enough, she pushes past him to kneel down next to Gilles, her cloak dragging through foulness. Removing her gauntlets, she slowly turns him on his back and searches desperately for a pulse, though she already knows he is beyond her aid. The body that was once Gilles is already stiff and cold, his eyes glassy and unseeing above a broken cheekbone smeared black with congealed blood. _We’re too late._ “I’m sorry, Colin. There’s nothing I can do.” Something is fizzing in her bones. _Anger? Grief?_

“You tried, my lady. That’s more than anyone else has done for us.” Colin clears his throat. “Master Dennet always said you were a good sort, always looking to help the common folk.”

Ellorian cannot stop the hot flush of shame from crossing her face. _No wonder he recognized me; Colin was likely a stable hand at Skyhold. How many times did I rush right past him as Inquisitor, never bothering to look twice at a servant?_ “Why did no one go for the city guard?” _Why did you wait until there was nothing I could do?_

“You think the city guard gives a damn what some noble does to her servants?” Sera snorts in derision. “The rest of the house will be lucky not to get the same once Lady Josseline gets a good look at the broken door.”

Colin wrings his hands again. “You’ll m-make her stop, won’t you? You’ll protect us?” His anxiety is almost palpable. “I h-have a wife! Ch-children! They’ll starve without me!”

Ellorian’s forehead prickles with the memory of needles and ink under her skin, marking her for a life of duty to Mythal. _I was born to protect the clan, to mete out justice in an unjust world. Instead I abandoned those who relied on me to_ this _._ “Have someone prepare his body for the pyre.” Her voice is firm and distant. “Lady Josseline de Courvoisier will answer for her crimes.” _How many Inquisition workers followed me faithfully? When we disbanded, I should have made sure they were cared for. They deserved better._

“Ella, look.” 

Ellorian follows Sera’s pointing finger to the grimy back wall of the cell, ignoring the childish nickname. She can barely make out the symbols scratched into the layers of muck by unlettered hands: W-I-K-O-M. 

_What does it mean?_ The puzzle consumes Ellorian as they make their way up to the main floor, the stench of death clinging to their clothing. _What message was Gilles trying to send? And to whom?_ She barely notices being ushered into an opulent sitting room, or the servant taking her cloak and gauntlets. Someone is calling her, their voice droning in her ears. 

“What?” Ellorian snaps, her concentration broken. A serving maid shrinks back, flinching as if expecting a blow. 

“T-tea, Your Worship.” The maid keeps her head down and her eyes on the silver salver in her hands, but Ellorian can see a fading, yellowed bruise on the side of her face. _Josseline has much to answer for._

Ellorian gathers spirit magic in her fingertips and gestures to the bruise. “May I?” When the other woman nods shakily she lays her living palm against the other’s battered cheek, adding a thread of frost magic to the healing to bring down any lingering swelling. “What’s your name?”

“Ava,” she whispers. 

“Ava, I will stop her. I promise.” Ellorian infuses her voice with all the confidence she can manage. _I cannot allow Josseline to harm any more innocents._

“Thank you, my Lady.” Ava wipes her eyes on a corner of her apron, curtseying. “Can I get you anything else?”

“We still need to figure out where all the elf servants went.” Sera sounds as tired as Ellorian feels, wrung out from the night’s stress. “D’you know if they left anything behind?”

“Nothing that hasn’t already been picked over by the other servants.” Ava bobs another curtsey. “I can ask the others to show you what they took.”

“Please, it’s very important.” Ellorian says. “I don’t intend to take the items for myself, only see if I can find any clues.”

Somewhere across the city, a bell tolls.

Ellorian waits for Ava to shut the sitting room door behind her before slumping into a couch. Her hands are trembling. _It’s probably just nerves._ “How long do we have until Josseline comes back?”

“Not long, now. The ball ended at midnight.” Sera puts her chin in her hands. “Got a plan?”

“Not really.” Ellorian snarks. “It’s a Jenny thing.”

Sera is only stopped from throwing a tasseled cushion at her head by the arrival of Colin and a line of other servants, each bearing items scavenged from colleagues long fled: clothing and baubles, vestiges of life too worthless to carry with them on their journey. A doll with one button eye. A heavily creased map of the Free Marches. No less than five copies of “Hard in Hightown”. 

“Look at this!” Sera tosses a book to Ellorian, titled “Edible Plants of the Minater Delta”. “That might narrow it down.”

“It might.” Ellorian smothers frustration. _Free Marches, narrowed down to the Minater Delta. What are the three major cities of the Minater Delta? Ansburg, Bastion, and…_

Ava bursts through the sitting room door, pale and trembling. “She’s here, she’s here!” 

Ellorian claps her hands sharply to cut the nervous chatter. “Bring her here. It’s time Lady Josseline and I had a little chat.” She waits until the room is clear before taking a seat in a carved high-back chair opposite the sofa, hands on the gilded armrests, breathing deeply to settle her nerves. _Keep her off balance from the start._

The Lady Josseline de Courvoisier makes a poor first impression, a foolishly drunk woman past her prime, draped in disheveled silks and overburdened with jewelry. Her ivory mask glitters with veridian inlay in a _very_ familiar pattern of tree branches. “Herald of Andraste, it is an honor” she slurs, affecting a high-pitched, girlish tone. She gathers her skirts and stumbles towards the couch. 

“I did not give you permission to sit.” Ellorian’s quiet voice is a stark contrast to the other woman’s, controlled and commanding. _Is this shem wearing_ vallaslin _?_

Josseline freezes halfway to a seated position, crouching like a toad. “Your Worship?”

Ellorian keeps her face wooden and her tone mild. “I saw the cells, Josseline. Would you like to know what I found, down there in the dark?”

“I cannot imagine, Your Worship.” Josseline sways in her ridiculous heeled shoes, eyes wide. “There are no cells in Maîson Courvoisier. I hand any criminals to the city guard, like any good citizen of the Empire.” 

The implicit threat of calling the city guard makes Ellorian’s blood boil. _So she thinks to intimidate me? Let’s see which of us has more nerve._ “I see. And how would you explain the dead body? I’m curious.”

“Maker! A dead body, here of all places?” Josseline’s eyes glitter behind her obnoxious mask. “Perhaps an intruder has murdered one of my household!” She takes a seat, crossing her ankles neatly. “I have had trouble with ruffians of late, vandals and thieves who call themselves Red Jenny. Perhaps you have heard of them?”

Ellorian feels the corner of her mouth twitch upwards into a smile. _How amusing. She thinks she can threaten my friends with impunity._ “You sit here and think yourself safe, don’t you?” She leans forward in her chair and lets a measure of her displeasure show in sparks of lightning flickering between her fingers, crackling against the sensitive skin of her palm. “You find absolutely no shame in what you’ve done, I can see it in your eyes.”

“And what have I done, _rabbit_? I am well within my rights to discipline my household as I see fit.” Josseline smirks openly now, relishing her power under Orlesian law. 

“Indulge me. What crime could Gilles have possibly committed to deserve _death_?” Ellorian’s fingers dig into the armrests hard enough that her prosthetic scrapes off flakes of gilding. _One last chance, Josseline. Make the most of it._

“If you must know, I caught him snooping in my private letters.” Josseline smile makes it clear she is merely tolerating a savage. “No doubt he was searching for information he could sell, probably in Wycome.”

Ellorian blurts out the word before she can stop herself. “Wycome?” _Of course! The largest city on the Minater Delta, the letters on the wall W-I-K-O-M. Wycome! That must be where the elven servants went. But who was Gilles leaving that message for? He was no elf._

“House Courvoisier has many rivals, stupid girl.” Josseline shakes her head, the very image of a weary tutor instructing a particularly dull pupil. “I found his correspondence when I had his room searched.”

“Is the note still in your possession?” Ellorian makes no effort to disguise her interest. _I know how to get what I want from this fool. Her type only respects the boot at their neck._ She gathers her mana, prepared to cast. 

“Enough games! You--” Josseline breaks off in a scream as her skirts catch fire, leaping up to thrash at the flames with her gloved hands. 

A burst of frost magic from Ellorian has the fire extinguished in a twinkling. “I too tire of these games.” Her grin is all teeth and no warmth. “Why not make it easier on yourself and show me the letter?” Josseline’s whimpers only serve to widen her smile. _Not so brave, now that I have the upper hand. Perhaps I will leave her in one of her own cells. I do so enjoy poetic justice._

Sera barges into the room, bow drawn and searching for targets. “What happened? I heard screaming.”

“Not to worry. The Lady Josseline and I are going to her study, to read some correspondence together.” Ellorian takes up her staff, stroking fingers along the snarling dragon’s heads. “Aren’t we?”

Josseline bleats in fear. 

The halls are dead silent as Ellorian and her shivering captive make their way to the upper floors, no servants in sight. _They’re probably hiding from their mistress until I’ve dealt with her._ Once in the study, Josseline all but runs to the locked desk. She frantically tosses papers aside until, sobbing, she is able to put a singed scrap in Ellorian’s hand. 

The note is artfully burned, edges crisped and ink bleeding until only two phrases can be deciphered: “...meet in Wycome” and “...burn after reading”. The legible words stand out from the paper, written in a precise but unfamiliar hand. _Gilles wanted someone to find this, or he never would have kept it. But who is the message for? Who did he risk his life to contact this way?_

“I have done what you asked,” Josseline whines. “I can give you anything you want. Gold, power, anything! Just leave and we can forget this night ever took place.”

Ellorian blinks at her, filling with slow incredulity. “You brutalize your servants and you think you can just _buy my silence?_ No harm done and I go on my merry way while you continue to abuse the very people you should be sheltering?” Her hands ball into fists; Ellorian wants nothing more than to feel Josseline’s mask shatter under her knuckles. _She dares to wear the All-Mother’s vallaslin. She who harms those under her protection._

“They’re mine to do with as I please!” Josseline squalls like an infant cheated of a sweet. “The law says--”

“I don’t care what the law says.” Ellorian hardly recognizes her own voice, it is so cold. She thinks of Colin and his faith in her, of Ava’s bruised face, of poor dead Gilles. _They will never be safe so long as this woman lives._

Her silverite grip closes around the other woman’s throat.

Josseline gasps for air, hands scrabbling uselessly across runed metal. “Please,” she gurgles, tears running tracks through her face powder. Her knees buckle until she stares up at Ellorian in supplication. “Please.”

Ellorian’s prosthetic cannot feel Josseline’s struggles, for it is not a living hand. Ellorian’s heart has no pity for Josseline’s tears, for she is a hand of righteousness. _She will never harm another. I will not allow it._

She cannot feel the bones in Josseline’s neck snap in her inexorable grasp, but she hears them; twigs carelessly trod upon in the woods, startling a deer into flight. 

The household is gathered in the entry hall when Ellorian makes her way back down the stairs, so silent she can hear her footsteps padding on the marble floor. _Why are they so quiet? They’re free._ “Josseline cannot harm any of you ever again.”

“You killed her.” Colin’s horrified whisper echoes in the recesses of the hall. He clutches his face, mouth gaping open and shut, open and shut. 

“You’re safe now, all of you.” _I don’t understand._ Ellorian looks to Sera, who only shakes her head; she has an arrow fitted to her bow. _Does she think the city guard will attack?_

Ava’s wail of despair breaks the silence and then they are all talking at once, shrieking over each other in hysteria. 

“Maker save us, where will we go?”

“--needed this job to feed my family--”

“--call the city guard!”

“--think they’ll believe us against the Herald of Andraste?”

“She will probably pin it on one of us--”

Sera grabs Ellorian by the shoulders, pulling her toward the door. “We need to get out of here. Now.”

Ellorian’s last view is of Colin, weeping. She cannot hear him over the din, but she can make out his words by reading his lips. _My wife. My children. They’ll starve without me. Why would the Maker do this to us?_

_Ar lasa mala revas,_ she thinks sadly. _Your god is as undeserving as mine are._

She and Sera fade into the night at a run. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Special thanks to Arcanista for editing! <3 
> 
> Giveaway!
> 
> Thanks for reading Chapter 5! I thought I’d do something fun to celebrate finishing this chapter (it was a doozy) so I’ve decided to start a little scavenger hunt. If you reblog this chapter with the following in your tags:
> 
> 1\. All of Solas’ named spies in this chapter. (clues, clues)  
> 2\. A comment about this chapter or the fic in general (critique is very welcome, I’m writing this fic as a learning experience)
> 
> From today, Nov. 2 through Friday Nov. 13 you will be entered into a list to receive a 500 word drabble from me on a prompt of your choice. You don’t need to be following me. One winner will be chosen at random at midnight Nov. 14. Keep your ask box open so I can contact you. If the winner doesn’t respond within 48 hours, I will redraw a new name. 
> 
> Hunt Well, vhenans <3
> 
> Link: http://codexharlot.tumblr.com/post/132438973688/the-tales-we-tell-ourselves-solavellan-chapter-5


	6. In Which a Dreamer Wakes in Twenty Years

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Smut ahead :)

**Chapter 6: In Which A Dreamer Wakes in Twenty Years**

The wind off Val Royeaux’s harbor kindles the smoldering embers of sunrise to flame by the time they make it back to the trade district. Long after their mad dash through the darkened streets slows to a walk, Ellorian’s heart beats against her ribs like a bird in a too-small cage. Her chest aches for Colin, for Ava, for the ruin she leaves in her wake. 

_I’m never hard to find. Just follow the trail of broken lives._

Her thoughts drift in circles like vultures around carrion. _I had no choice. Josseline would never have stopped her abuses. It was just, to kill her._ Her insides squirm with guilt. _It was. The servants will find other work, with kinder masters. The city guard needn’t get involved._

_Right?_

Ellorian has never seen a door so welcoming as Dagna’s. Without the night’s excitement to distract her, all the sleepless nights settle across her shoulders like a mantle. _Another could carry the weight better than I._ Her steps drag across the threshold. _It’s unlikely Solas will be stalking the Fade during the day, at least. Maybe I can have some dreams to myself for once._

Dagna starts up from her seat at the kitchen table to wrap her arms around Sera’s waist as soon as they are through the door. “By the Stone, I’m glad you’re back! We’ve been worried!” She has to stand on tiptoe to kiss her lover before stepping back to search her for injuries, eyes as thorough as if she’s inspecting a masterwork. 

“What’s happened?” Ellorian seats herself at the table gratefully, slouching in her chair. She can’t seem to stop her right hand from trembling against the smooth oak. The left remains still and lifeless. _It’s stupid to be resentful that a hunk of metal doesn’t get the shakes. I’m probably just overtired._ Her head buzzes with the beginnings of another migraine.

“Three elves were strung up near the harbor, all young women.” Samson isn’t the type to sweeten bad news. “Someone hacked off their left arms at the elbow.” He strides into the kitchen, face grim and his hand at his waist, as if itching to grasp a sword hilt that isn’t there.

“Creators have mercy.” Ellorian bites her lip in vexation at the slip. _The Creators have no mercy, foolish girl. There’s no point in asking._ “Any leads? Besides the obvious, of course.” _This was a message meant for me. For me and every other elf in Val Royeaux, damn them!_

Samson shakes his head. “Only rumors. The city guard will make a fuss about investigating, but I doubt much will come of it.”

“Get Leliana and her people on it. She’ll sit them down so hard their arse will never be the same.” Sera leans into Dagna’s embrace, seeking comfort. “And when she’s done, I have a few arrows that need a good home.” She has a mulish set to her face that speaks of frustrated anguish simmering just beneath the surface. Dagna squeezes her tighter, grave and sad. 

_This is my fault._ Ellorian’s guts are full of wriggling eels; she swallows hard to stave off rising nausea. _The elders always prattled on about avoiding the shemlen’s notice and what do I do? I prance about offending people left and right, no care in the world. Free the mages, Ellorian. Banish the Wardens, Ellorian. Reunite the Empress with her elven lover and never mind all the resentful nobles, never mind how it looks: an elf raised to power on the whims of another elf._ The small part of her that isn’t reeling from the news wants to laugh and laugh. “Forget Fen’Harel. I’ve already put the next Exalted March in motion all on my own.” The room is too hot with so many people in the room and the merrily crackling hearth. Ellorian locks her knees to keep her wobbling legs from buckling under her and lurches to the window, fumbling the latch open with leaden fingers. 

“What’s the matter with you?” Samson’s brow furrows in concern. “Are you _sweating_?”

“Am I?” Ellorian wipes her face, surprised to see moisture on her palm. _How odd. I never even noticed._ “It’s just a little warm in here, don’t you think?” On the way back to her seat, she stumbles into the table hard enough to wrench a curse from her lips. “Dread Wolf take me!” _That will be a spectacular bruise._ The world seems to tilt. _Or is it_ me _that’s off-axis?_

Samson doesn’t chastise her for her language. Frowning, he takes her by the shoulders, gives her a little shake. “Shit. Your pupils are dilated. When was the last time you took your bloody potion, girl?”

Ellorian’s head lolls. “Two days.” Talking doesn’t seem to be working right. All the words come out funny. She tries to click her tongue, but her mouth is too dry. _Strange._ Her heart is a carriage with no driver; horses _running, running, running,_ andthe shakes have spread to the rest of her. All but her left arm. _Not an arm,_ she reminds herself sternly. _Never an arm._ She wants to tell Samson she’s fine, just a little tired, but then the world tilts a little too far sideways and the ground comes rushing toward her face and she should probably put her arms out to stop her fall…

She wakes with her cheek pressed to a familiar silk carpet, head ringing and her nose full of acrid smoke. Ellorian lifts herself to hands and knees, groaning; a warm trickle of blood runs down the side of her face and drips onto the cold stone floor. 

_Elgar’nan. What happened?_

Ellorian squints into the eerie green glow of the torn sky and hauls herself up on the splintered ruins of her four-poster bed, brushing snow from her tunic. The brocade bed curtains are shredded; she quickly tears off a strip of crimson cloth to hold to her bleeding temple and surveys the wreckage of her private chambers. Her windows and balcony are gone as if ripped away by a giant hand, along with her desk; the bedchamber ends with a sheer drop onto the icy mountainside. Ellorian shivers. The Breach covers the whole sky, bathing her in sickly green light. 

Coughing into the rising smoke she hobbles to the stairwell, broken glass crunching under her feet. _The only way out of Skyhold is down._

Ellorian finds Sera just outside her door. 

Her friend lays against a wall stained with sprays of red, her throat torn to ribbons. Eyes glazed, she stares at Ellorian in mute appeal. _Help me._

Ellorian screams, floundering for something-- _anything--_ to staunch the flow of blood. She presses her hand against the wound as Sera coughs wetly, flecks of blood splattering onto her face. “No! Sera, no!” _Sylaise save her, there’s too much blood._

Sera looks so ashen in the light of the Breach, unrecognizable from her usual ebullient self. She mouths the words her severed vocal chords won’t allow her to speak. _Stay quiet. Run. Go._

“I won’t leave you!” Ellorian pours spirit magic in streams through her fingers, knitting flesh and sealing veins as fast as she can, calling on all her training and experience with healing. “Don’t you dare leave me, Sera!” _Mythal, Maker, anyone! Help me!_

But Sera does leave her, despite Ellorian’s best efforts. She gives one last rattling cough and goes limp, crumpled like an autumn leaf. Her eyes dim, no spark of mischief to ever gleam in them again. She looks so much smaller in death than she ever did in life; too still and too quiet. 

Ellorian sobs silently, her vision blurring with tears. _Falon’din guide you, friend. Maker take you to his side._ She presses a kiss to Sera’s forehead before she is off and running, moving as swiftly and quietly as she can down the rickety staircase to the main hall. 

_What happened here? Why can’t I remember? Dread Wolf take me, I must have hit my head harder than I thought._

The main hall is in shambles; bright shards of stained glass flickering like jewels in the light of roaring flames. Ellorian covers her nose and mouth against the smoke. If she had known what would greet her here, she would have leapt from the heights of her bedroom to dash herself against the rocks below. She keeps silent per Sera’s warning but before long she is shaking, her very soul hoarse from shrieking. _I’m too late. I’m always too late._

Ellorian doesn’t give herself the mercy of looking away. Body by body, she checks for survivors; these are _her_ people and if she can save even one-- _Creators, please. Just one.--_ she owes it to them to try, to give them what rights she can. She owes it to her friends to remember their deaths, though the images brand themselves into her mind with white-hot torment. 

Thom, both his ribcage and shield split open, vigilant in death over the bloodied corpse of Josephine. He had clearly died defending her, his body shielding hers from attack to no avail. Ellorian doesn’t bother checking for a pulse on either; she tucks Josephine’s dainty hand into Thom’s larger one and moves on, numb with horror. _Falon’din enasal enaste._

Cassandra and Leliana broken upon the dais, burning in gruesome repose like the figure of their prophet on the throne. Above them the gilded Andraste is screaming instead of singing, flames from their pyres heating the metal until it runs in streams down the statue’s marble face like golden tears. _Falon’din enasal enaste._

Varric on his stomach, neck twisted around until he looks straight up into Ellorian’s face. His right arm is flung out, his fingertips mere inches from brushing Bianca in one last loving caress. She puts the crossbow’s stock in his bloody hand and wraps his fingers around the trigger as best she can. _Falon’din enasal enaste._

All Ellorian can see of Vivienne is one manicured hand sticking out from under the rubble of the collapsed balcony. It is almost too ironic, for Vivienne to die crushed under the weight of her own splendor. _Falon’din enasal enaste, hahren._

_Is anyone still alive here? Please, let me not be the last._

There are only two ways out of the hall yet unblocked by fallen ceiling beams or collapsing walls. Ellorian takes the door to the garden; some instinct, churning in the belly, warns her away from the rotunda. _Why should the mural discomfort me? It’s only a painting._

Ellorian needs to shove with all her body weight before the door opens; something heavy keeps it wedged shut on the other side. When she manages to make an opening large enough to squeeze through, she finds the bisected remains of Cullen _. Falon’din enasal enaste. What could rip a man in half like that?_

A wolf howls faintly in the distance. Ellorian freezes, senses alert and trained on locating the beast. _Somewhere to the northwest, I think. I’ll have a better view up on the curtain wall and a clear path to the postern gate through the mage tower._

She runs up the stairs taking two steps at a time; pinpricks of snow scraping her face. Strong gusts of icy wind push her this way and that as she crests the battlements. _The castle wards have fallen. Skyhold is lost._

Without the garden wall to shelter her from the elements, the blizzard tears at her clothing and leaves her half-blind, suspended in swirling white. She follows the crenelations hand over hand. _Dread Wolf take me, even if I make it out of Skyhold I’ll never survive the storm._

When Ellorian staggers into the mage tower, she discovers even more slaughter. The Iron Bull and Dorian lay together in a final embrace, both covered in jagged wounds. Bull’s leg is gone at the knee along with half of Dorian’s face, the flayed skin revealing the muscle and bone of his jaw. _Look at this profile. Isn’t it incredible? I picture it in marble._

_Falon’din enasal enaste._ Ellorian wishes she could close her eyes and never open them again. _This can’t be happening. Please, let this all be just a bad dream._

“I can help you.”

Her heart nearly leaps out of her chest in fright before she recognizes that voice. “Cole! You’re alive!” _At least I can save one. Thank the gods._

Cole is unharmed, the snowflakes alight on his skin and clothes indistinguishable from his pale hair. He smiles at her reassuringly from under the broad brim of his hat. “You’re hurting and I can help.”

Ellorian nearly bowls him over in her haste to hug him. “I’m just glad you’re safe!”

He puts his hands on her shoulders, clammy fingers digging into her tunic. “Solas, tangled and tantalized. Subtle snares woven for others, but in the end he only finds a shadow of fleeting perfection. I can make it all go away.”

“We need to get out of here.” She tries to pull back, but he has a strong grip, his fingernails biting painfully into her skin. “Ouch! Cole, what’s the matter?”

“You want to forget.” He draws her closer, fingers contorting into claws, ripping bloody furrows in her flesh. His mouth opens wider and wider until a second set of teeth emerges, chattering for her throat. “I can help you forget.”

Ellorian feels frost creep along her skin, winding around her limbs like thorned vines on a trellis. _A despair demon. So I was too late to save Cole after all._ Once, as a child, she had fallen through the ice on a frozen pond. She had grown so cold and the water was so dark, though she thrashed and kicked for the surface. _What’s the point of struggling? No one is here to pull me out. Papae is dead. I let him die, along with all my friends._

The water’s surface drifts farther and farther away. Ellorian lets herself go limp, her sodden clothing dragging her down, down, down. _I am so tired._ Bubbles of air trickle through her numb lips. She watches them rise, scintillating silver particles disappearing into the white light above. _Perhaps it’s better this way. Like falling into a long sleep with no nightmares._

Something grabs her by the waist and tows her through the water, but Ellorian is unafraid for the first time since the Exalted Council. She closes her eyes and smiles. _Thank you, Cole. You were right. It’s better to forget._

Then her head breaks the pond’s surface. 

Gulping lungfuls of air, she wails and kicks feebly at her captor. _No, no, no! I want to sleep! I want to forget!_ Someone embraces her, warmth blanketing her until she finds her feet on solid ground, her hair and clothing dry. The ice in her veins recedes. 

“Open your eyes, vhenan.”

Ellorian knows that voice: it belongs to someone she cannot, _will not_ , deal with right now. _If I open my eyes, will I see him die like all the others?_ Something inside her breaks at the very thought. She shakes her head, burying her face in Solas’ chest. “No.”

“The demon is dead, my heart.”

_Cole. Falon’din enasal enaste._ She only squeezes her eyes shut tighter, gripping the front of his shirt in her fists. “Go away, Fen’Harel.”

He laughs, his voice rich and resonant. “For every time you have ordered me away, you have also asked me to return. Can you not make up your mind?”

Ellorian’s head feels like a grape in the winepress. _What is he talking about?_

When she doesn’t respond, Solas sighs in fond exasperation. “You always were stubborn. Very well. Shall we go elsewhere?”

_Anywhere but here._ She nods. 

There is no sensation of movement, no passage of wind or a lurch in her stomach to signify a displacement in space. One moment they stand on the banks of a frozen pond and the next…

Warmth under her bare feet, radiating from a floor as smooth as glass. The air hums against Ellorian’s skin, tingling awareness suffusing into her flesh until it reaches the very heart of her. Her mana seems to stir of its own accord, reflecting, echoing, harmonizing with her own heartbeat until she is a symphony unto herself. 

Ellorian opens her eyes and stares, bewildered, at vaulting arches glittering with thousands of infinitesimal golden tiles and semiprecious stones. Rows and rows of bookshelves line halls stretching far into the horizon. Flowering trees tower over walkways suspended in mist, their blossoms drifting gently into untold depths. “The Vir Dirthara.” _What wouldn’t I have given to see this a year ago?_

Not the Vir Dirthara of her own memory, but his; the walls unmarred by time. Spirits ghost along the paths, murmuring an ancient tongue that sings in Ellorian’s bones. _If I listen long enough, will I understand the words?_

When she steps away from-- she doesn’t know what to call him, even in her own head-- she almost stumbles over the hem of her shimmering white gown. The thin material is like no cloth Ellorian has ever seen, so light that it might float away on a passing breeze without the hundreds of seed pearls and shining silver beads affixed to weigh it down. _I know this is a dream. It must be. But how can it be so detailed and distinct?_ “How did I not notice I was dreaming before? All mages are trained to know the signs! Was that _your_ doing, Fen’Harel?”

“You have admirable control of your dreams for one so untrained, even without the Anchor.” He makes no move to hold her against her will, releases her as soon as she pulls away. “Think carefully. What is the last thing you remember?” 

She remembers running from Maîson Courvoisier, dawn over the harbor of Val Royeaux, Dagna’s fear and Samson’s concern. The world shifting under her feet like a ship’s deck in a storm, her heart beating fast enough to burst. “Oh. I fell...” _Fainted like a maiden in Cassandra’s novels. Sera is never going to let me live it down._

“You hit your head on the way down. On the corner of the dining room table, or so my agent tells me.” 

Ellorian studies him at that admission, inspects his inscrutable expression for a hint of his intentions. He merely stands with his hands behind his back, tall and solemn. _He belongs here, surrounded by finery and magic. This is his place, not mine._ She feels that thought like a spear in her heart, like a plunge into a frozen pond. “Which is yours, Dera or Kariel? Or both?”

“Neither.” His eyes are steady on her face, drinking her in like rain on the sands of the Hissing Wastes. “Your cook, however, is quite chatty. She delights in telling my agent how much you enjoy her apples.”

_How can he know this? Unless he’s hiding in Val Royeaux, I can’t have been unconscious long enough for a raven to have reached him yet._ “How long have I been asleep?”

Fen’Harel smiles at that. “A clever question, but futile. My means of communication are not dependent on distance.” 

Ellorian dislikes that smile; it reminds her of the time her older brother Emaris held her doll over her head, just out of reach. _Keep him talking. If he underestimates me, all the better._ “So. You meet with your agents in dreams. You must spend a great deal of time asleep.” _Creators, there goes any chance of intercepting messages._

“Well done.” His expression, so proud, so pleased, makes Ellorian’s cheeks burn. 

“Why are you telling me this?” She cannot stop the edge of anger from creeping into her voice. 

“Because you will not remember any of it when you wake.”

Ellorian fights to breathe evenly, to shove down the panic rising inside her. She is treading dangerous waters now, struggling to keep her head above the surface. _Fight. This is bigger than just me. The whole world depends on any information I can wring out of him._ “And why wouldn’t I remember my dreams? Are you the Nightmare, to _steal_ my memories from me?” Ellorian cannot stop her voice from cracking, from fear and helpless rage. She clenches her hands into fists to stop them from shaking. _Hands. Both of my hands. Is that a part of my dream, or his?_

“It would not be my doing, vhenan.” The man she once called Solas takes her trembling hands in his, brings her knuckles to his lips. ”You collapsed because your body could not sustain itself without the Somnarus potion; Madame de Fer should never have given it to you in the first place. She is an ignorant child, clumsily using what she does not understand.”

_“_ The potion stopped me from dreaming. Vivienne was protecting me.” _From you._

“No, emm’asha.” Fen’Harel draws her close, tucking her head under his chin. “It only stopped you from _remembering_. That hunt in the Emerald Graves was not the first, nor was it the first time you sought to tempt me.”

Ellorian swallows hard. There is no stopping her panic now; it crashes over her like a wave, scouring away her anger and leaving only numbness in its wake. _Gods, what happened in those other dreams? What don’t I remember?_

He holds her to his chest, wraps his arms around her to keep her on her feet. “They gave you more potion to stop the withdrawal from killing you. _That_ is why you did not notice the demon until it was almost too late.” He strokes her hair. “After your contact with the Anchor, demons are drawn to you more strongly than other mages; if I had not intervened you would be dead or possessed, and I cannot allow that.”

Ellorian looks over the Vir Dirthara, at the splendor of Elvhenan in its glory. She looks at the edge of the walkways and the swirling mist obscuring the long drop. _I wonder if my heart would stop in fear before I hit the bottom._ “If this is what you want, why bother saving me? For your dream to live, I must die.”

“That you must ask at all...Ir abelas, emma lath.” He holds her ever tighter, and the pain in his voice rings true. “Of course you would doubt. Ir abelas, vhenan’ara.”

_He doesn’t want to see the fear in my eyes. That’s why he won’t look at me._ Ellorian leans her head against chest, listens to the beat of his heart. _I’m fighting for him, too. I need to remember that. Even if I must hurt him to do it. If I can just make him stop…_ “Ar lath ma, Solas.” She tips her head back and kisses him lightly on his jaw. 

Solas leans into her embrace and now it is his turn to tremble, overcome. “Ar lath ma,” he rasps. “I will stay until you wake. You need not fear demons.”

_This is the man I know._ Ellorian smiles.

“Would you like to see the Vir Dirthara? We have some time, yet.”

“No. I won’t remember it. And we have libraries in the waking world.” Ellorian steels herself at his look of hurt confusion. _He needs to see. This is for his own good._ “It’s a beautiful library, to be sure, but not beautiful enough to destroy the world over.” She looks at the glittering sanctum, at all the knowledge of the Empire, empty and worthless to her. _We are the Dalish: keepers of the lost lore._ It leaves a bitter taste in her mouth. “Abelas was right. None of this belongs to _my_ people. This is not for me.”

A spiteful thought rises in her like a serpent uncoiling in her belly, fangs bared and dripping venom. _It could work. It could._ “I want you to make me a dream. A good dream, after all the nightmares you caused.” _It’s a risk, but I haven’t much to lose. He could force a dream on me at any time, bend me to his will like a willow switch. At least this way I can control where it goes._

“What kind of dream?” He cups her face in his hands, runs his thumbs along her cheekbones. Presses a kiss to her lips, light as a feather. 

“You know what I want,” she breathes, and nips his lower lip. One last gasp of sweet air, before the water closes over her head. 

“Are you certain?” His eyes bore into hers, hopeful and anguished in equal measure. 

_Perfect._ “Absolutely.” Ellorian presses herself against him, draping her arms around his neck. “Help me forget, just for a little while.” She closes her eyes, belly roiling. _Please, let this work._ She slips beneath the ice. 

“Ma nuvenin, vhenan. _Wake up!_ ”

Ellorian awakens in the arms of her lover.

She listens to the soothing rhythm of his heartbeat beneath her ear and smiles, content. More than the heat of his body or the silk sheets and piled furs, Ellorian finds herself warmed by his very presence. These precious moments are too few and far between; their duties sometimes keeping them apart for days or weeks at a time. Though they take every opportunity to share a bed, more often than not it is a bedroll on the hard ground instead; surrounded by the thinly-walled tents of their companions. Ellorian savors these quiet mornings together in the comfort of her private chambers, where they can make love without any fear of being overheard. _Sex is wonderful, but it’s_ intimacy _I crave most from him._

Solas stirs, his voice rasped from dreaming. “Good morning, vhenan. Did you sleep well?”

“I always sleep well with you,” she murmurs against his chest. “Though that probably has more to do with our nightly activities than anything else.”

He chuckles and lifts her chin with a finger, presses a chaste kiss to her lips. “Undoubtedly, though I do not recall any objections on your part.”

Just the barest brush of his lips on hers is enough to set her heart racing with desire. “No complaints.” Ellorian’s voice is far too faint for her liking. _What is it about this man that turns me into a breathless teenager?_

“Good.” Solas wraps his arms around her and rolls onto his side to kiss her in earnest at last. 

Ellorian had taken lovers before Solas: young Dalish men eager to win the affections of the future Keeper to one of eight major clans, hunters who thrilled in the pursuit. And she had led them all on a merry chase; dallying with one or another to suit her whims, content with quick tumbles on the furs of her tent or on soft grasses under the stars. None had ever kissed her like this, like they could taste her for centuries and still not be satisfied. _Maybe once Corypheus is dead I can introduce him to the rest of the clan. His magic and knowledge could be such a blessing to the People._

She hums in approval when he deepens the kiss, tangling her tongue with his and trailing her hands down his broad back. “I don’t know how much time we have,” Ellorian manages to gasp out when they part for air. 

Solas strokes her cheek with his thumb, leaning his forehead against hers. “I asked Lady Montilyet to cancel your appointments today. You should rest after your journey to the Emprise.” 

Ellorian frowns. “Presumptuous.”

“Perhaps.” He kisses the corner of her downturned mouth, and something in his eyes turns wistful. “I missed you, emma lath.”

Her ire melts at the sincerity in his voice. “If it means I have you to myself for a whole day, I forgive you.” She pushes him flat on his back and straddles his hips in one smooth motion. “Cassandra gave me an interesting novel the other day. ‘The Maiden and her Shadow’. Orlesians have _fascinating_ ideas on Dalish courtship.” Ellorian grins wickedly, grinding herself down on his hardening arousal. “Shall we act one out?”

Solas inhales sharply. “From what I have seen, Dalish courtship is but a pale imitation of Elvhenan’s practices. Time has twisted any lingering symbolism to near incomprehensibility.”

Ellorian folds her arms beneath her breasts, the heat in her belly curdling to something sour. _Not this again._ “Has it ever occurred to you that maybe you _don’t_ know everything about the Dalish? Lavellan has rites unique to the clan, traditions not written down in your _books_.” She makes no effort to mask her frustration, lifting herself off of his lap. “Perhaps you should learn a bit more before we continue, _hahren_. For all you know, I might have married you against your will!” She turns onto her side so all he can see is her back, homesickness washing over her in a sudden wave; a longing to be among her own kin instead of constantly striving to put everyone else at ease with having an elf at the reigns of power. 

“Forgive me, I spoke in haste.” Solas kisses her shoulder in apology. “I should not have--”

“At least you speak your mind. Most people hold their tongues until they think I’m out of earshot before calling me a savage.” Ellorian bitterly interrupts. 

“Do not put words in my mouth, vhenan.” He snakes an arm around her waist and pulls her to face him, his eyes searching her expression. His face softens into something pensive. “I will admit it was unfair for me to assume familiarity with Dalish customs, but you must also acknowledge--”

“Acknowledge what? That we aren’t a perfect replica of Arlathan? I think we’re aware, Solas!” Her voice rises with each word. “Most of us are too busy just trying to _survive,_ thank you very much!”

Solas sighs, his exasperation plain. “I never said otherwise. I was merely attempting to suggest an alternative to reenacting spurious Orlesian falsehoods.”

“Oh.” Ellorian looks away, abashed at her outburst. _He was trying to be romantic and I trod all over him._

“Your temper is a fearsome thing to behold, emm’asha.” His voice almost sounds amused, but the look in his eyes is...not. “You are as fierce as any High Dragon when you wish to be.”

“Ir abelas,” she whispers. “Today was supposed to be just for us, and I’ve spoiled it."

He kisses her softly, sweetly, tongue curling around hers, and some of Ellorian’s apprehension slips away. “No vhenan, the fault is mine. I should know not to be so remiss when speaking of your people.” 

“Ar lath ma, Solas.”

He looks at her like she is the only woman in the world, like they are the only two people that matter in all of Thedas. “Ar lath ma, Rienna.” 

She blinks at that name, unable to hide her surprise. “Where did you--? I never told you--”

“You were named for the Riennalis flower, what humans call Dawn Lotus, were you not?” Solas interrupts smoothly. He nibbles a path down her jaw to the juncture of her neck and shoulder. 

“Mmm.” Ellorian arches her back and hooks her leg around his thigh. “Actually, my brother Aeron had trouble saying his L’s as a child. I’d rather not let anyone else use it, to be honest. It’s something just for us, you know?”

“Of course, vhenan.” He presses her back into the bed and she wraps both of her legs high around his waist, rolls her hips just to tease. “You must miss your clan very much.”

_How I love a man with restraint. It’s so much more interesting to watch his will crumble between my fingers._ She pulls him back to her mouth, wanting to taste him for all those long centuries. “I miss them everyday. My clan’s just expanded to include the Inquisition now.”

“I doubt the rest of your clan will be so welcoming.”

She bites his lower lip hard enough to hear him grunt. “Don’t be rude.” Her next kiss is soft, to soothe the sting. “If I can learn to love all of you, so can they.”

Something in his expression goes melancholy. “You have a generous heart, my love, but I doubt I’ll ever be welcome among your people.” And with that, he applies himself to the task at hand; kissing his way to her breasts, circling his tongue around her nipple in slow strokes, determined to make her writhe. 

“And why is that...” she gasps. “...do you think?” Her fingernails rake over his shoulders, just enough pressure to redden the pale skin. _I know how to distract him from whatever is bothering him._

“Call it a difference of opinion.” He switches his attention to her other breast, biting down lightly on the tip before laving it with his tongue. 

“Well. You’re certainly more charming when your mouth is full of something that _isn’t_ your own foot.”

He stops at that, looking up at her grinning face incredulously. Then he laughs, really laughs, shoulders shaking in mirth. Ellorian feels her heart lighten. _I want to be the one that makes him laugh like that every day._

When the levity of the moment passes, Solas gives her a slow, confident smile and -- _Oh.--_ he looks at her like a succulent slice of cake just _waiting_ to be devoured. “Is that so?”

Ellorian squeaks in surprise when he pins her hips down with firm hands and brings his mouth to her cunt, ravenous. He thrusts his tongue in and out, lapping at her with an unusual haste, as if she truly was as sweet as icing and he a starving man. She sighs in bliss and digs her fingers into the bed sheets. 

He knows she wants his tongue on her clit; Ellorian can see it in his eyes, the wicked man. He swipes just to the left, to the right of it before returning to her slit, over and over until her legs shake and her body is as taut as a drawn bow. 

“Please,” she moans, hips jerking ineffectually against his grip. “I want to touch you.”

“Oh, is that all?” Solas exhales a gradual puff of air, cool against her wet heat and rests his head against her inner thigh. He runs two fingers up and down her slit, coating them in her slick before pushing inside, curling, beckoning, stroking sweetly but not quite enough to bring her over the precipice. “You wouldn’t rather come for me, right here, right now?”

Panting and dizzy with want, it’s all she can do to whimper and writhe, a white knuckled grip on the bed sheets. “Please!”

“Please what?” He presses open-mouthed kisses to the crease beneath her hipbone, teeth gently scraping the delicate skin, all without changing the maddeningly slow rhythm of his thrusts. “You have not told me what it is that you want, vhenan.”

“Creators, let me come!” Ellorian keens in pleasured distress as he finally moves his mouth to her aching clit, taking the nub gently between his lips but applying no pressure. She can feel his mouth, smirking against her oversensitive flesh. 

“No Creators here. Only me. Try again.” His tongue skims in lazy circles around her clit. 

“Solas, please! Let me come!” She is close, so close; a plucked harp string vibrating, singing, near to snapping. 

“Ma nuvenin, vhenan’ara.”

And then his mouth seals over her clit, sucking as his fingers pump faster and faster, his tongue lapping frenziedly at her until Ellorian cries out, shattering like a crystal chalice dropped from a height. 

He gives her a few moments to catch her breath, to slow her pounding heart before wiping his chin and mouth with the back of his arm and kissing his way back up her body to her mouth. She tastes herself on his lips, sweeps her tongue over his in silent gratitude. 

“You are so beautiful.” Solas snakes his arms beneath her and rolls them over, hands stroking her hips, her thighs, cupping her bottom to position her just over his tip. 

Ellorian reaches between them to grasp him, gently teasing her fingers down the sensitive underside of his shaft until his cock twitches against her palm. “I want to return the favor.” 

“No, my heart. Today is for you.” He tugs her down, insistent, sliding slowly into her, filling her until they both moan, breath breaking into shivering silence. 

She rolls her hips, pins his hands to the bed with her own. “For us.” She swallows his voice with a kiss, lifting herself in quick bursts until they are both panting. 

She can feel her own release building, muscles quivering in exquisite anticipation, but when his hips begin to thrust upwards she slows to a languid pace; rising until he nearly slips free before slamming back down, the sound of their flesh meeting wet and profane. She rakes her fingers down his chest and abdomen. “You’re awfully impatient today.”

Solas touches her reverently, strong hands smoothing up her sides to cup her breasts, thumbs tracing delicious patterns across her nipples, squeezing tenderly. “Perhaps.” His jaw clenches as she grinds her hips in slow circles. “We do not have... as much time as I would like.” All at once his patience with her slow pace snaps like spider-silk and he bucks into her, his fingers digging into the softness of her thighs.

Ellorian throws her head back and smiles radiantly, moaning and arching her back at a particularly deep thrust. She is a honeycomb dripping sweetness and begging to be consumed, thighs spread wide and welcoming. She lets him set the pace, lets him pinch and roll her clit between his thumb and forefinger until her eyes flutter shut and she can no longer stop herself from crying out, wanton and sublime with pleasure. She lets him take her as he pleases until his thrusts grow erratic, until he murmurs broken strings of elvhen too ancient for her to understand except in base concept, his voice as mellifluous as quicksilver. 

“Stop.” The word is meant to be an order, but it leaves her lips like a plea instead. 

He stills inside her instantly, eyes wide and shuddering with his near release as she raises herself until the tip of his cock barely brushes her wet folds. She loves him fiercely in this moment, all his self control crumbling until his very soul is bare to her. “I told you...” she pants “...that I wanted to return the favor.”

“Please, vhenan.” 

When he tries to pull her back down to him she only laughs and pins his hands above his head, their fingers entwined. “Please what?” 

Solas’ chest heaves, but he says nothing. He is not the type of man to beg, too proud and too sure of himself. 

Ellorian smirks. _I always did like a challenge._ She traps his cock between his pelvis and her slick cunt, rolling her hips to slide along his length, the friction delicious against her clit. She hums to feel him thrash beneath her, satisfied as a cat with a cornered mouse, and peppers his face with tiny kisses. “Please _what_?”

“Harel’asha,” he groans. His hips buck desperately, only driving her pleasure higher. 

She clicks her tongue. Kissing a path to his ear, she sucks the point into her mouth, grinds down a little harder. “Try again, my love.”

“Please! Ellorian, let me--”

She doesn’t wait for him to finish before taking him to the hilt in one smooth motion, savoring the feeling of her inner walls stretching around his girth. Then his hands break free of hers and she is flat on her back, her legs slung over his shoulders as he pounds into her, the muscles of his jaw tight in concentration. 

The new angle soon has her wailing beneath him, clutching at his back and twisting her hips to meet his thrusts. His lips find hers in a sloppy kiss, his tongue pulsing against hers, keeping rhythm with his cock and muffling Ellorian’s cries. When she comes again she takes him with her; falling, flying, but safe in his arms as he spills himself into her at last. 

They lay entwined for several heartbeats, panting. “Ar lath ma, Ellorian.” Solas looks at her like a drowning man sighting a distant shore. “If you remember nothing else, remember that.” He buries his face in the crook of her neck.

She feels wetness trickle down her shoulder. _Tears?_ “Vhenan, what--”

“Wake up.”

Ellorian wakes in her bed in Val Royeaux, temples throbbing and vision blurred. Dazedly, she tries to move quaking muscles weak as limp rags. 

“Shhh. Darling, drink this. You need to rest.”

Someone ( _Vivienne?_ ) puts a potion vial to her lips, her teeth chattering against the crystal as the bitter taste of herbs smooths over her tongue. She manages to croak one word. “Fen.”

A wooden cup replaces the vial, cool water washing away the stickiness in her mouth. “Sleep. He cannot find you with the Somnarus potion.”

_Oh. Good._ Ellorian closes her eyes at lets the blackness take her. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Special thanks to Arcanista for editing! The mantle and “The Maiden and Her Shadow” refer to Saarebitch and her OC’s!
> 
> Read Rip Van Winkle:   
> https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Rip_Van_Winkle


	7. In Which a Bride Awakes As from a Pleasant Sleep

**Chapter 7: In Which a Bride Awakes As from a Pleasant Sleep**

Consciousness returns by degrees. 

It starts with sound: whispers on the edge of her understanding, voices slow and murky as if heard through water. The noise crawls between Ellorian’s ears and wriggles around the inside of her skull until she wants to thrash like a mad thing. 

Hands grip her, hold her still as she writhes. She screams at that touch, a living corpse devoured by rats. She can feel their sharp little claws clutching at her skin, scuttling down her limbs, gnawing at her stomach to squirm into her innards. They rip away flesh as they feast upon her body. 

“--fucking _do_ something! Can’t you--”

 _Sera._ Ellorian gropes blindly for her in the darkness, desperate for an anchor in a world of shifting shadow. _Sera where are you?_ She tries to force the words past her teeth but the murmur of voices presses ever closer against her eardrums until they must surely burst. 

“--gave her enough to keep her out of danger, my dear. She must endure.”

Fingers attempt to pry her mouth open and Ellorian snaps like a rabid dog, bites until she tastes blood. _Keep your distance, Dread Wolf._ She snarls in feral triumph. _I am no easy meat._

“Maker! Darling, can you hear me?”

Ellorian knows that voice too _._ She thinks her eyes might be open but the world is merely a blur of color and shape; paint splashed carelessly against a canvas to run in streams of pigment, congealing and churning into formless mass as she tosses her head to search for...something. Anything. Nothing. She isn’t sure what she wants except for the pain to end. _Help me, Vivienne._

“If you can hear me, I need you _not_ to bite Samson--”

She tries to swallow but her throat is afire and her veins are molten down to the littlest ones in the tip of her pinky, tries to nod but she isn’t sure which way is up or down. The fingers are back, gripping her jaw until her lips part. She tries not to fight. _Samson and Vivienne and Sera. Safety. Home._ Hot liquid on her tongue, syrupy sweet enough to make her teeth ache.

The hours drag on. Or at least she thinks it must be hours. Ellorian can’t be certain if it’s hours or days or _years_ that pass. She hears herself groan when someone presses a damp cloth against her forehead, the coolness a welcome relief against her fevered skin. 

“Shhh.” A man’s gentle voice, graveled from chokedamp and years of bellowing orders. “Easy now.”

Ellorian shivers until sweat slicks her skin, until her teeth rattle hard enough for blood to bloom in her mouth again. Her breath comes in quick pants, ribs squeezed like the bellows in Dagna’s forge. Her heart is white hot metal on the anvil, quivering to the beat of the striking hammer and spitting sparks with every blow. On and on and on. “Water,” she wheezes, in sometime that may as well be no time at all. _Please. Something to put the fire out._

Samson’s face swims in and out of her vision. “Think you can sit up?”

She gives it her best try, jellied limbs scrabbling uselessly against the nest of pillows and blankets. Her prosthetic slips on the fine linen sheets, metal skidding across soft cloth and sending her head thudding back down into her goose feather pillows. “Ow.” Her temples throb, the blood thundering in her ears. 

“Right. That’s a ‘no’, then.” A clatter of dishes and the sound of streaming water. He brings a silver spoon to her lips. “Here.”

Ellorian nearly chokes when the scalding broth hits her tongue, coughs weakly to clear her lungs. “That’s not water,” she gasps, gulping deep breaths of cool air to soothe her scorched mouth as her eyes adjust to the dim candlelight. 

“No, but you need to eat it anyway.” He scoops up more broth and nudges her mouth with the spoon impatiently.

“Ngh.” She turns her face away but the damned spoon pursues, insistent. “Don’t wanna.”

“Stop being a baby.” He pokes at her face with the spoon a few more times for good measure. “You’ve been in and out for three blighted days and--”

“Three days!” Ellorian yelps as Samson takes advantage of her astonishment to jam the spoon past her teeth. Spluttering, she glares at him sourly. _At least this spoonful had the chance to cool down somewhat._ The broth is rich with garlic and spices, and the dissolved bread is soft enough she doesn’t need to chew. 

“Three days. So you’ll need to build your strength back up.” He lifts another spoonful of soup. “Eat.”

Ellorian doesn’t give a fig about food; she craves sustenance of a more informative nature. “What happened after I fainted? Did anybody find the ones responsible for killing those women?” She feebly attempts to push the spoon away, eager for news. “Stop that! Sam--mph!”

He is almost certainly laughing at her, his face smooth but eyes creased at the corners. Ellorian narrows her own eyes and clamps her teeth down hard on the offending cutlery. _Alright. If that’s the way he wants to play._

Samson grumpily gives the spoon’s handle a few sharp tugs. “Maker’s breath, you’re being bloody difficult today,” he grumbles. “Look, if you eat, I’ll talk. Fair?”

“Fair,” she mumbles sulkily around the cutlery. She lets him have it with all the dignity she can manage: all sweat matted hair and trembling limbs, but face queenly and disdainful. 

“You hit your head on the table when you fell. I tried to catch you but...” The filigree handle of the spoon seems almost fragile in his big hands, a strip of linen tied tightly around the knuckle of his index finger. Ellorian can see flecks of carmine on the white bandage, where his blood has seeped through to dry in splotches. “Well, I’m not exactly at my best. The Red saw to that.”

Though the broth is hot enough to scald her mouth Ellorian lets him feed her with eyes lowered, meek as a lamb.“Thank you for trying, Samson.”

“You wouldn’t have fallen at all if you had the sense the Maker gave a goose.” He gives her no time to object, the next spoonful ready almost before she finishes swallowing the last. “You bloody _knew_ the consequences of stopping the potion too quickly. So why--?” He grinds his teeth and thrusts another spoonful at her brusquely. “No, don’t tell me. Just eat. What’s done is done, and you’ll be free of it soon enough.”

Ellorian’s eyes go to the swirling pale flaw in the polished bedside table, where her maids had been unable to stop the Somnarus potion from leeching the wood stain’s color. Dera and Kariel had found slivers of broken glass around the bed for days. _I panicked._ Her throat constricts just remembering their wild chase through the Emerald Graves; the jolting certainty of Fen’Harel’s continued presence in her dreams is enough to make her mouth go dry. _I panicked and ran like a...a rabbit._ She shivers under her fur coverlet. 

“Maker, don’t tell me your fever’s back.” Samson stands to set the half-empty bowl on the bedside table and lays a gentle hand across Ellorian’s forehead. 

She closes her eyes; the flickering candlelight sways, dim and hypnotic behind her closed eyelids. “How much do you know about Dreamers?” 

“Only what stories are left, I suppose.” The mattress dips when he retakes his seat at her bedside. “There was a boy in Kirkwall-- Feynriel-- who was thought to be a Dreamer.” She can almost hear his thoughts go ‘round, an usual hesitation to his gruff voice. “There were rumors. An entire bandit company turned against one another in a frenzy of killing, driven mad in their sleep.”

 _Mythal’s mercy._ She knows that plea is useless. Ellorian remembers all too well prostrating herself to beg for aid for the People at the All-Mother’s feet, remembers the searing flash of golden eyes and a voice like chill wind through the Frostbacks. _What was could not be changed. You know not what you ask, child._ She remembers the geas closing around her heart like a fist and turning her into a mere puppet, her body restraining Morrigan while her mind shrieked protests. She swallows past the lump in her throat and opens her eyes. _I am afraid, but I won’t be ashamed of that. Not in front of Samson._

“Fen’Harel has at least two thousand years of experience on that boy.”

The silence hangs heavy between them. Samson is quick to catch the implications of her words; he stirs the soup with a restless hand, eyes narrowed in thought. “I wondered what you were running from. I thought maybe...well, that’s neither here nor there. _Maker_.”

“Don’t tell Sera. He’s not here for her to feather with arrows, so there’s no point in her getting all worked up over it.” Ellorian’s presses her lips together to keep them from trembling. “She’s worked so hard not to flinch at the sight of magic anymore. I’d hate to spoil her efforts.”

The spoon stops. “Who else knows?” 

“Vivienne knew first, and I sent a letter to Leliana. Now you.” Ellorian’s breath hitches in her chest. “How long do I have until...until...” She can’t make herself say it. _Until I must face him again._

“You’ve four more days of potion before you can come off it completely. Madame de Fer put the vials in my keeping before she left. Circle business.” Samson’s big hand envelops her living one, warm and solid and real. “Maybe there’s another way...” he trails off into silence, lips a thin line.

 _Four more days. Creators._ “If there were, I don’t think Vivienne would have given me Somnarus potion in the first place.” She squeezes Samson’s hand, tears gathering at the corners of her eyes. 

He squeezes back. “I knew you were brave. I saw you face down Corypheus at Haven. This is just another--”

“You and I have _very different_ memories of Haven, then.” The tears spill over to trickle down her cheeks; they leave a wet trail all the way down to her ears before soaking into her pillow. “Mostly I just got thrown about like a ragdoll.” Her voice is shrill, an edge of hysteria creeping into her quickening breath. ”And then a mountain fell on me and I nearly died walking through a blizzard with three broken ribs and...”

Samson won’t meet her eyes, but he doesn’t remove his hand from Ellorian’s panicked grip. He talks to the wooden headboard above her instead, gaze following the intricate carvings of leaves and songbirds. “You were shouting at him, even with his dragon at your back and the Mark burning in your palm. I remember. Your courage bought enough time for your people to get out. That’s _something_ , isn’t it?”

Now it’s her turn to look away. _I’m not the only one who would rather forget that battle._ “Samson, I shouldn’t have--”

“Don’t.” His face is grim again, lined with weariness. “I won’t run from what I did. A lot of innocent people died because of my actions; _you_ almost died because of my actions, and I’ll have to live with that. Nobody _forced_ me to follow that monster.”

She wants to say something, but what is there to say? _I’m not such a hypocrite that I can criticize a man for being careless with his trust._ She sniffles wetly. “At least you didn’t fuck your monster.” 

A moment of shocked silence passes, both of their faces twisted into a rictus of horror. “Maker’s balls,” Samson chokes out, squeezing his eyes shut as if to block out the mental image. “I did _not_ need to think about that.”

Ellorian clears her throat. “Quick, let’s talk about something else.” _Elgar’nan, anything else._

“Maker, _anything_ else.”

The echo of her own thoughts lifts her spirits a little. They share a quick grin before Samson takes his hand back to fish a handkerchief out of his sleeve. “Here, blow your nose.”

She takes the handkerchief from him before he can hold it to her nose himself and dabs at her face. “Thanks, _Dad_.”

“Be grateful you’re no daughter of mine, or I’d tan your fool hide.” His face is stern, but his mouth quirks just enough that Ellorian knows he is laughing inwardly at her again. “And just for that, I’m bloody feeding you the rest of this soup _even if it’s gone cold_.” 

Ellorian grimaces, but doesn’t complain. The soup is actually more pleasant now that it’s had a chance to cool, warming without burning her tongue. “What about those elven women?”

“The city guard didn’t catch the original murderers.” Samson shakes his head, his mouth tightening. “Not that they searched all that hard. What’s a few more dead elves, eh? But another three were strung up in Belle Marché, in full view of the Grand Cathedral and this time they didn’t care who saw.”

“Let me guess. Chevaliers.” _Only a Chevalier would be arrogant enough to do his butchering in plain sight._ Ellorian flexes the fingers of her prosthetic, curling and uncurling the metal joints. “Did they mutilate these victims too?”

He nods grimly. “Made a spectacle of it, too. Laid the severed arms on the Grand Cathedral’s steps like tossing a tourney challenge, no care in the world. And why would they? Laws don’t apply to Chevaliers, ‘specially not Chevaliers of noble blood.” He spits the word ‘noble’ like he wants a bad taste out of his mouth. 

The soup may as well be pond scum to Ellorian. “What is Divine Victoria doing about this?” _Creators, it isn’t just me they object to. This was a political statement against all of Leliana’s new initiatives._ “What is _Celene_ doing about this?” She takes a shaky breath and folds her arms across her aching ribs. 

“Not much.” Samson taps the spoon against the bowl agitatedly. “They’re being held in Chantry cells for now, but it’s possible Empress Celene will petition for their release, to be tried under Orlesian law and then...” He shrugs and chuckles, low and biting. “Well. Orlesian law doesn’t much care about the common folk.”

 _If Josseline could murder her servants with impunity, what’s stopping these men from going free?_ Ellorian fiddles with her blankets and tries not to grind her teeth. “With Celene and Briala working together, I had hoped...” 

“For what? _Change?_ ” Samson’s voice is mocking, but his eyes are sad. “There are too many who profit off the injustices of the world, and none of them will give up their silver spoons easily.” His shoulders slump just a fraction and he exhales tiredly. “Ah, don’t listen to me. I’m just old and cynical I suppose. You tried to make things better. That’s more than most.”

Ellorian’s lips twist in a bitter smile, in no mood to be comforted by his platitudes. “I would be happier had I actually managed to _accomplish_ anything.”

“Now you’re just being petulant.” He shakes the spoon at her, splattering drops of broth on the coverlet. “You did what you could, _all that you could_ , and it’s the rest of the world that needs convincing. Pouting about it won’t bloody help anyone. Or d’you think you can just _snap your fingers_ and the world will order itself to your whim, hm?”

“I don’t expect--” Ellorian stops herself before she can voice the lie. _I did expect things to change. I want things to change. Things_ will _change._ “Am I supposed to just give up, then?”

“Of course not.” Samson’s voice is full of calm certainty, his eyes steady on hers. “But you’re only one person.” The spoon clatters against the porcelain bottom of the bowl. “Be realistic. It’ll take time before the wind starts blowing your way.”

 _And in the meantime, the common folk suffer and the People die one by one._ “That’s not good enough. Not for me.”

“It never is.” He puts the bowl aside and draws a crystal vial from his shirt pocket, the Somnarus potion within glimmering and golden in the candlelight. “You should get some rest, now that you’ve eaten. It’s late.” The cork stopper comes off with a pop. 

Ellorian bites her lip. _The first of four._ She drinks, then settles back into her pillows as Samson pulls the covers to her chin. Her last thought is of blood streaming down the veined marble steps of the Grand Cathedral. 

Consciousness returns much more quickly the second time. Ellorian hears the _skritch skritch skritch_ of a quill on parchment and Sera’s voice murmuring a low string of swears vile enough that the tips of her ears go hot. She throws her arm across her eyes to shade them from the afternoon sunlight streaming through her window and groans. _At least my hand isn’t shaking so badly. And my headache is almost gone._ When her eyes have adjusted enough, she props herself up on her elbows and squints into the light. 

Sera slouches in the window seat, tongue between her teeth and lap desk askew across her knees, scribbling furiously. The sunlight glints off her pale hair and illuminates a smudge of blue ink on her cheek where Sera likely propped her face carelessly against stained fingers. At the sound of Ellorian’s stirring she bolts upright, the heavy jar of indigo pigment rattling in its cup, liquid sloshing against the thick glass. “You!” She tosses her parchment onto Ellorian’s desk without bothering to blot (Ellorian only gets a brief glimpse, but it’s enough to make out a crude drawing of a bald stick-figure elf fleeing from a swarm of bees) and scrambles to the bed, throwing her arms around Ellorian. “You scared us half to death, arsebiscuit!”

Ellorian’s breath leaves her in a whoosh of air, ribs creaking in protest as they both thud back to the mattress. She laughs weakly and hugs Sera back as fiercely as she can. “Sorry, falon.”

“M’not kidding! For a bit we actually thought you might croak.” Sera rolls off of Ellorian to sit beside her, back the to headboard. “You even managed to scare Viv! You were doing alright for a while when all of a sudden you went cold as ice and your lips turned blue and Viv said you couldn’t _breathe_ , like you were drowning but with no water.”

“Well, I’m alright now.” Ellorian manages to sit up this time, propped against her pillows, and leans her head against Sera’s shoulder. 

“Are you?” Sera’s voice is uncharacteristically serious. She looks down into Ellorian’s eyes, lips pursed. 

_Fenedhis._ Ellorian’s heart sinks. “Samson told you.” 

“I knew _something_ was wrong.” Sera’s feet kick idly, bare toes wiggling to a beat only she can hear. “But yeah.” Her tone is mild, but Ellorian’s stomach tenses.

“I don’t want you to worry about it.” Ellorian nudges Sera’s leg with her own foot in silent apology. “There’s nothing either of us can do.”

“Idiot.” Sera lays her cheek against the top of Ellorian’s head. “You’re my friend, and I worry about _you_.” She shivers, and something in her face goes dark and brooding. “I’ll kill him. I’ll shoot him right in his stupid elfy face.”

“Death didn’t stop Mythal, remember?” Ellorian gently taps at Sera’s clenched fist with the fingers of her prosthetic until the hand loosens its white-knuckled grip. “I doubt it would stop Solas either. Not forever, anyway.”

Sera shudders again and kicks one small foot high into the air before slamming it back down on the mattress. The entire bed frame creaks with the force. “Well, I’ll just kick him in the dangle-bag then. Arsehole _deserves it_.”

“Can’t argue with that.” Ellorian snickers, nudging Sera with her elbow. “You know, that would make you a _hero_ among the Dalish. The Hahren’al would probably change your name to something more elfy-sounding, then tell all the wide-eyed children of your _noble_ deeds. I can see it now! The Tale of Serassan, the Beautiful Archer Who Kicked the Dread Wolf Right in the--”

“Oh, shut it.” Sera elbows Ellorian back good naturedly, but her toes scrunch up against the coverlet. “You don’t have to go through with it, y’know. Viv’s not the only alchemist who can brew a bloody potion. We’re in _Val Royeaux_. There’s gotta be _someone_ else in this damn city who makes your Somnary whatever.”

“I think maybe I do, Sera.” Ellorian takes a deep breath and holds it for a count of three, then lets it out in a long sigh until she sags like an empty wineskin. She wills her voice not to shake. “He’s watching me for a reason. Maybe if I can get him talking, I can convince him to...to just _stop_. Or at least let slip some information. _Something_ to help us out.”

Sera is silent for a long moment, running her fingers over the runes engraved into the silverite of Ellorian’s prosthetic. “You’re not Andraste on the pyre, Ella. Why’s it always _you_ walking into the bloody flames?” She traces the swirling patterns of raised scars on Ellorian’s left bicep where flesh and mechanism meet.

Ellorian winces, stung by more than the accusation: the lyrium threads sleep uneasily beneath those scars. “If someone has to do it, it might as well be me. I know him best.” She licks her lips and steels herself for the explosion before continuing. “Vivienne thinks I might be able to...you know? Seduce him? Since we were--” 

“ _Fuck. Viv._ ” Sera’s hand clamps around Ellorian’s left wrist, just below the articulated metal thumb, and gives it a hard shake, jarring Ellorian’s shoulder. “It’s bloody easy for _her kind_ to talk about _duty_ and all that rot when it’s someone else doing the _real_ work.”

“And what if she’s right?” Ellorian pulls her prosthetic away roughly. “What if I can make him stop? Isn’t that _worth it_?” _Please, don’t make this more difficult than it needs to be!_ “Think about what’s at stake!”

Sera throws up her hands. “Mental! Bloody _mental_! D’you think you can _fix_ him with your special elfy _cunt_?”

“It’s not like that and you know it!” Ellorian sinks back down onto her pillows and pulls the covers over her head. “Ugh! This is why I didn’t want to tell you!” 

“Yeah? Well your _plan_ is _shite_!”

Ellorian doesn’t dignify that with a response. She seethes under her blankets, warm and smothered beneath stuffy layers of soft linen, sleek silk, and thick furs. _I knew she wouldn’t understand. I knew it._ Her stomach growls audibly into the strained silence. 

“You’re an arse when you’re hungry.” The bed shakes and Ellorian hears Sera’s bare feet padding across the polished floorboards. “Cook made apple bread this morning. You’ll start seeing sense after some _real_ food.”

“You’re the one not being sensible!” Ellorian grumbles, throwing the covers back, but the door has already swung on it’s well-oiled hinges to click shut behind Sera’s retreating back. 

Sera brings up a tray with nearly half a loaf of fine, dark bread and a silver pitcher, still cold from the cellar and beaded with condensation. She sets it down in the middle of the bed and sits cross-legged at the foot, pouring rich streams of milk into two thick pottery cups. 

They eat in silence, scattering crumbs across the bedspread. The bread is soft and sweetly studded with pecans and chunks of apple. When she swallows the last bite of her first slice, Ellorian takes a sip of cold milk and finally breaks the silence. 

“Samson told me about the Chevaliers.”

“He tell you their names?” Sera takes a gulp of milk and lets out a long belch, wiping her mouth on the back of her hand. It only smears the ink stain on her cheek further, a little blue comet with a trailing tail in a slightly lighter shade of blue. “You know one of them. Sort of.”

“ _Oh?_ ” Ellorian pauses in reaching for more bread, fingertips poised above the tray. “I can’t say I know too many Chevaliers.” _Not that I’d like to know them. Not after what I’ve heard they do to elves._

“If you don’t know _him_ , he sure knows _you_.” Sera tears her slice in half and dunks it into her milk. “Armel de Courvoisier told the guards at the Grand Cathedral that the arms--” She screws up her face in disgust. “--that the arms were a gift, just for you. He means to see you dead.”

 _No. Oh no._ Ellorian lets her arm drop, wanting to retch. “de Courvoisier. Josseline’s…?”

“Lady Pisshead’s pissbag son.”

 _How can she just keep eating after all that?_ Ellorian looks down into her cup of milk, swallowing hard. “Why didn’t Samson--?” She presses her lips together. _Why didn’t he tell me?_

Sera smirks. “Grand, isn’t it? Having friends keep things from you?” She crows, “And all for your own good, too!” 

Ellorian just glares at her. “And have any of your _Friends_ gotten wind of what the Divine means to do about it?” she asks through gritted teeth. 

“Not a peep.” Sera picks slivers of pecan out of her teeth before pouring herself another cup of milk. “ _That one_ keeps her cards close to her chest.”

The question plagues Ellorian the rest of the day: from her supper to her bath and even until the evening stars alight one by one in the darkening sky. She paces slowly around her bedroom, turning her doubts over and over in her mind like a craftsman would examine a carving by touch, searching out the little cracks and seams. She almost misses the knock on her door before it opens and Samson steps through. 

“You should be in bed.” He has another vial for her, smaller than the last. “Here.”

 _Halfway done already._ Ellorian swallows the bitter brew before snuffing out her candles and crawling back under the covers. 

On the third day, Ellorian wakes to diffident tapping on her bedroom door. She yawns and flops onto her back, stretching until her spine gives a series of satisfying pops. “Just a minute.”

Her headache is down to a faint buzzing and the shakes are gone completely. Swinging her legs over the side of the bed, she moves to rub sleep from her eyes before freezing at the cool touch of silverite over the delicate skin of her left eye socket. _Fenedhis._

Slowly, she moves the mechanism away from her face, a sick, swooping feeling in her middle. _Creators, I need to be more careful._ She shakes her head to clear it as she crosses the room to open the door. 

Dera waits on the other side, shifting from foot to foot. She drops a perfunctory curtsey and proffers a letter sealed with plain white wax. “I’m sorry to disturb you, my Lady, but this just arrived and the runner said it was urgent.” 

“Thank you, Dera.” Ellorian leans against her doorframe as the maid scurries back downstairs, searching the letter for any clue to the identity of the sender. Breaking the seal, she unfolds the nondescript paper--neither roughly nor finely milled-- and holds it up to the pale morning light:

_The Sisters sing verses from the Benedictions just after midday at the chapel on Rue de Pêcheur, sweet as nightingales. Be discreet._

The note is unsigned and in an unfamiliar hand, but Ellorian smiles grimly. _At last, Leliana has news for me._ She shuts the bedroom door behind her before climbing onto her window seat and unlatching the heavy casement. Calling fire to her palm, she lets the note flash to flame and dusts the ashes from her hands over the windowsill, watching them drift away on a breeze from the harbor like mid-summer snow.

Just before noon, Kariel helps Ellorian into one of the maid’s own dresses of unadorned dove-grey wool. She giggles as she ties her pleated apron around Ellorian’s waist. “Oh, how fun! A grand charade, like in a storybook!”

Ellorian smiles indulgently and tucks her golden hair beneath a starched white bonnet before pulling on a pair of nugskin gloves. “It _is_ sort of fun, isn’t it?” _If I didn’t need to borrow her dress, I’d never have told her in the first place. Creators, if she prattles to the wrong person…_ Of course, that assumes that neither of her maids is already a spy. Her grin wavers.

The dress is close enough in size to go unnoticed, even if it is tight at the chest and loose at the waist, and the long sleeves hide the metallic sheen of her prosthetic that the gloves cannot cover. With a wicker basket looped over her arm, Ellorian looks like any other servant crossing the trade district: just another elf girl on an errand for her betters, another knife-ear scampering underfoot. She dodges around a cart loaded with packed crates and checks the first item on the grocery list wheedled from Cook: a dozen apples. 

The vendor is at her usual spot just down the street, her pointed ears poking out of holes cut in the brim of her straw hat. Her wizened face wrinkles further when she smiles at Ellorian’s approach, and she winks ostentatiously. “Well look who it is! Sneaking off to meet a young man, are we?”

The question is so familiar and prying that Ellorian is momentarily caught off balance. “N-no,” she stammers. Her face flushes to the tips of her ears. “Um...I have enough man trouble right now.” _Creators, do I ever._ A giddy hysteria seizes her thoughts and all at once Ellorian wonders what this poor old woman would say if she knew the full details of Ellorian’s “man trouble”. _Well, you see my lover turned out to be an Elven God and he keeps breaking into my dreams uninvited and--oh!--did I mention he wants to tear down the Veil?_ Giggles bubble up in Ellorian’s throat but she ruthlessly suppresses her urge to laugh and fishes in her coin purse for five silvers. “A dozen of your best, please.” _Sweet Sylaise, but she would think I had brain fever._

“Oh, don’t mind Old Linne, girl.” The old woman cackles and pinches Ellorian’s cheek. “I shouldn’t tease. Laure said you were still peaky.” The coins drop, jingling, into her apron pocket and she counts out thirteen rosy apples into Ellorian’s basket. 

_Laure? Oh, the cook._ “Thank you.” Ellorian hoists the basket higher on her right shoulder. “She made apple bread yesterday. It was delicious.”

“Some good food will put you back on your feet. What a nasty fall.” Old Linne clicks her tongue. “You be safe now, girl. The streets are dangerous of late.”

Ellorian shifts out of the way of a porter wheeling a barrow of sheepskins. “Will you be alright alone?”

The old woman only laughs heartily and pinches her cheek again. “Don’t worry about Old Linne, my sweet. The Chevaliers don’t want a tough old tree root like me.”

Rubbing her pinked cheek, Ellorian weaves her way south towards the docks through the throng of the street. She stops briefly at a candlemaker’s shop for a bundle of sweet-scented beeswax tapers, but soon enough she is stepping through the iron portcullis of the Storm Gate and onto Rue de Pêcheur. She takes in the heavy smells of salt air and fish, tar and brine, and turns her face into the brisk wind, letting the warm sun gild her eyelids for a brief moment. Past the sailors coiling rope and unloading the gently rocking ships, the harbor of Val Royeaux shimmers, a vast expanse of grey-blue water stretching endlessly on. 

It takes some fancy footwork to both keep her bare feet out of puddles and avoid bumping into anyone; when Ellorian looks up from stepping around a pile of barrels, an elven man with a mop of tawny hair and beautiful amber eyes gives her a roguish smile and gestures to his wares. Ellorian smiles and shakes her head no. _Best to get the fish on my way back._

She follows the gentle curves of the wide thoroughfare as the street follows the lines of the Sea-Wall; fifty paces tall and twenty paces thick, with watchtowers spaced at even intervals. Men and women in armor pace the top of the wall, breastplates lacquered blue and gold with the Lion of Orlais. Ellorian rounds a wide drum tower, running her hand along stone speckled with moss and sprigs of spindleweed, and enters the tumult of the Port Marché. 

The din of the square nearly bowls her over: the cries of livestock and bellowing hawkers loud enough to nearly drown out the tolling of the noon bell in the white steeple of the tiny chantry tucked against the city walls. _I’m just in time._ Ellorian heaves a sigh of relief and winds her way through the market stalls, toes sinking into the churned mud. 

Across the square, two watchtowers flank another open portcullis, though this one is rusted with age and salt air. Ellorian spots the flash of metal through the slitted windows of the towers; shemlen guardsmen were always mindful of the Rabbit Gate and the Alienage beyond. _Leliana said it was a prison. Once, before Divine Renata gutted it and jailed the People instead of criminals._ The high walls make her uneasy here; meant to pen in rather than protect. 

The Sisters have just begun to sing the first notes of the Canticle of Benedictions when Ellorian ducks into the gloom of the chantry. There are no vaulted arches or stained glass windows to let in sunlight; here the only illumination comes from a few torches and the brazier of the Eternal Flame, their smoke leaving streaks of soot on the whitewashed walls. _Leliana didn’t say how her agent would contact me._ She lays her basket down on the floor rushes and seats herself on a rickety pew to wait. 

This time of day the worshipers are relatively few, but this close to the Alienage nearly all are elves. As she looks around, Ellorian becomes increasingly aware of the stark cleanliness of her white linen bonnet, her unpatched dress, her unstained apron. Even without the vallaslin she feels apart from her city brethren, a mere observer peering into their little world. She keeps silent for fear of revealing herself through a stumbling tongue; an intruder mangling their words of worship like a savage Dalish from shemlen stories, a wildling of twigs and mud. _I can recognize a few verses at least. Blessed are the peacekeepers, the champions of the just._

Beneath the carved wooden figure of Andraste, rows of tallow candles fill the air with haze and the sour stink of burned animal fat. _I should light one. For the women._ For the six lives taken in her name, bodies torn apart in effigy of Ellorian herself. She bows her head, searching for prayers that don’t belong to her. _There was something about Emerald Waters, I think. Or was it about wrought things being lost?_ She shifts on the bench, the wool of her dress snagging on splinters.

“Mademoiselle?” Someone taps her shoulder. 

A cold finger of fear strokes up Ellorian’s spine when she turns to find Leliana herself, garbed in the simple hooded robes of a Lay Sister. “What--?”

“I am called Sister Estelle.” The other woman interrupts smoothly, face absolutely serene. “You said you wished to learn more about joining the priesthood, yes?”

“Yes. Thank you.” Ellorian stoops to grab her basket and follows “Sister Estelle” to a shadowy corner where the both of them can spot any eavesdroppers before they can be overheard, the Sister’s chanting drowning out any casual listeners. 

“I didn’t expect you to come alone.”

“Me?” Ellorian chokes down indignation. “What about _you_?”

“I am never without a few guards, these days.” Leliana shakes her head ruefully. “I would not have come myself without dire need.” She smiles. “It is good to see you again, my friend.”

“And you.” Ellorian’s returning smile is warm. 

“I wish we had more time to catch up, but...”

“I know,” says Ellorian. “Time is short.”

“Shorter than you think. Vivienne and I have been in negotiations with Fiona and the College of Enchanters for days. I have only a few hours before they resume.” There are lines on Leliana’s face that were absent at the Exalted Council, all those months ago. “There are reports of Fereldan mercenaries massing at Gherlen’s Pass, too close to the border for comfort. None fly a banner, of course, but I’ve heard whispers. Someone is stirring up fears of magic, both here and in Denerim.”

“Denerim?” The rushes rustle under Ellorian’s feet. “Do they mean to set Ferelden against the Chantry?”

“Not the Chantry, no.” The corner of Leliana’s mouth quirks upward. “Though given half a chance, Queen Anora would have Skyhold out of our hands entirely. She cannot be pleased with Cassandra and the Seekers holding a fortified stronghold right on her border, tariffs filling your coffers instead of her own. No, this is something else, I fear. I have supported the free mages as much as I am able, but they have begun seeking income of their own. A few have turned to smuggling and mercenary work, I’m afraid, but others have begun offering their services to the Empress and the nobility as healers, as enchanters, as--”

“Battlemages.” Ellorian finishes for her, grimly. “And since King Alistair had the mages exiled...”

“Vivienne would like a return to the Circles, albeit with improvements, but I would settle for at least a pact of neutrality: mages sworn not to ally with one country or another. Fiona is proving difficult in that regard.” Leliana’s eyes casually sweep the little chantry, alert and wary. “With the mercenaries already at the border, I fear Celene will soon begin rallying her own soldiers, some of the bolder or more ambitious southern mages among them.”

“Which only proves to the Fereldans that their fears were warranted: a potential invasion without mages of their own to match Orlais.” _Creators, what a tangle._ “Where are these rumors coming from?”

“I’ve followed every whisper and I still cannot find the source. And that troubles me more than anything else,” says Leliana. “I can trace a broadsheet back to the press that printed it, but the murmurings are on too many lips on _all_ walks of life. The trail grows cold, my friend.”

 _No patterns to the rumors. No point of origin for the strife._ Ellorian frowns. “I thought Josephine settled all this. There was a treaty--”

“Treaties can be broken. What is a piece of paper compared to the survival of a nation? Anora Theirin was born Anora _Mac Tir_. I know her Majesty; she is not a woman to leave a flank undefended, not on the slightest of chances.” Her face remains smooth, but Leliana’s eyes flash with suppressed frustration. “And it doesn’t help that trade between Orlais and Ferelden is severely compromised as of last week.” Her stare becomes even more pointed. “The head of Orlais’ largest noble shipping house was murdered. Seemly by one of Celene’s closest allies. Care to tell me about _that_?”

“What makes you think I know anything about--” Ellorian’s heart lodges in her throat, cutting off words. In her memories, a woman in a veridian-inlaid mask sneers. _House Courvoisier has many rivals, stupid girl._

“Fenedhis lasa _._ ” 

“Quite.” Leliana smiles crookedly. “Josseline had contacts throughout all the major Ferelden port cities: Highever, Amaranthine, Gwaren, Denerim. I could have used her influence to lean on the Council of Heralds and prevented Celene from escalating. She might have been our single greatest ally in that endeavor; she would never have risked a disruption in trade or a future embargo cutting into her profits.”

“I...I had to. I _had_ to.” Ellorian passes a shaky hand over her face. “She was killing her servants, just _murdering--_ ”

“And what does that make _you_? What does that make any of us? Killing Josseline was _expedient_. With time, I could have falsified her financial records and had her brought before a magistrate for smuggling, perhaps even blackmailed her into giving us control of her fleet of ships!” Leliana lowers her voice before continuing. “And now her death will lead to the death of her son. Armel is only nineteen, fresh out of the Academie des Chevaliers--”

“Then you have some assurance that Celene will punish them?” _So Leliana would have Josseline punished, just not for her crimes against the common folk. Is this what she calls justice?_ Ellorian bites the inside of her cheek. 

Leliana shakes her head. “Quite the contrary. The Council of Heralds would never stand for one of the nobility to be hanged like a common criminal for the murder of an elf. For a Chevalier, they are even less likely to agree. Celene cannot risk offending them; her power is not so strong that she is irreplaceable. Several of the Council Members have Valmont blood in their veins, and she rules at their pleasure. Her hands are tied.”

Ellorian inhales sharply. “Elgar’nan, even Briala would turn from her! Please, you can’t--! If they walk free after murdering-- we could have another Halamshiral! Riots leading to purges leading to--” She can almost taste the ash of burning homes. _Smoke from the brazier, that’s all._

The other woman holds up her hand to forestall Ellorian’s outburst. “I have no intention of letting murderers escape justice. Their public challenge at the Grand Cathedral itself means I do not dare grant them sanctuary. I cannot welcome elven initiates into the Faithful with open arms and then embrace their murderers with those same arms.” She sighs, looking more tired than even after Haven’s fall. “They will be executed before the Grand Cathedral tomorrow. At sunset.”

“Can you _do_ that?” Ellorian glances around for anyone close enough to hear. “I didn’t think the Divine had the authority--”

“Strictly speaking, I _don’t_. Not in the matter of secular law.” Leliana bites off every word. “But I have very few choices left to me. You’ve put me right into the wyvern’s nest!” She purses her lips before continuing. “Tomorrow you are going to lock your doors, draw your curtains, and stay inside. I mean it! I am going through these lengths, jeopardizing my own standing with Orlais, to _prevent_ a riot. I won’t have you start one on the cathedral steps after being recognized. Promise me, Ellorian.”

“I promise.” _What else can I say? Creators, what else?_ “I’m sorry, Leliana.”

“Nothing worth fighting for is easy.” Leliana lays her hand on Ellorian’s shoulder. “Keep your head down for the next few days, then we can discuss what comes next. I may need you if Fiona continues to prove reluctant.”

The wind, cool off the water, is a blessed relief after the stuffy chantry interior. Ellorian barely sees the people passing by as she traces her path back to Dagna’s house. Her head seems overcrowded with thoughts: Ferelden, Orlais, the mages, the elves. Josseline and her stupid boy. They wheel about like the seagulls overhead, screeching in her ears and squabbling over scraps of her concentration. _What is Fiona holding out for? Why would Ferelden send out mercenaries now of all times? The exile has been in place for two years already._ Too many questions, and no answers. The basket is heavy on her left shoulder and the handle rubs uncomfortably through the fabric of her dress, irritating her scars. _Leliana is right. I shouldn’t keep getting involved._ She is too conspicuous and yet beneath consideration; a spark burning brightly enough to ignite the tinder-dry tensions of the world, too small to drive the shadows back. _Strange, when a person is safer from prying eyes in waking than in dreams._

The handsome elf man with the beautiful eyes winks at her as she approaches, fish scales glittering on his hands and forearms. He holds up a fat snapper for her inspection. “Fresh caught this morning, Mademoiselle.” Ellorian has just opened her mouth to enquire on price when something catches the back of her skirt, jerking her out of her thoughts. 

“And where are _you_ going, little rabbit?”

Ellorian spins and comes face-to-mask with a man in a plumed velvet cap, reeking of rose pomade and liquor. She wrinkles her nose in disgust. “Don’t touch me!” Behind her, she hears the soft plop of the snapper falling to the cutting board. 

The man-- a well-to-do merchant by the simple chevrons on his mask-- doesn’t release his fistful of wool, only drags it closer to him so that Ellorian must edge forward or tear her dress. “Pretty, for a knife-ear.” His words slur with drink. “How about some company?”

“ _Not. Interested_.” Ellorian lets the basket slide to the crook of her elbow to grip her dress just below his handhold, stone faced and teeth gritted with fury. _I ought to fry this fool where he stands._

“Ten silvers is the going rate for a tender bit like you.” When his mouth upturns in a leer, the merchant’s curled and waxed mustachios remain stiff and still. “I’ll even throw in a few extra if you prove _talented_.”

In her wrath, Ellorian draws on the memories of all the women she has ever admired, channeling their strength into her words. Her mother at her most imperious, the High Keeper pronouncing judgement and demanding the proud to yield. Vivienne at the height of disdain, sending nobles fleeing at a raised brow and a cutting comment. The Priestess Atisha, fierce with her spectral greatbow, eyes sharp and tongue sharper should a Sentinel _dare_ to put even a toe out of line. Ellorian gathers her mana, a bolt of lightning prickling at the cusp of forming. 

“I _said_ , I’m _not interested_!”

“Be quiet, Léa!” The elven man rounds his table, wringing his hands. “Please forgive her, Monsieur! She is the favorite of the Marquis de Morrac, and gets above herself!” He glares at Ellorian, amber eyes sharp on hers.

“Morrac, you say?” The lout releases her and adjusts his mask, as if to better hide the visible parts of his face. 

The very thought of seeking protection under the guise of a nobleman’s pet bedwarmer is enough to make Ellorian boil with rage, cheeks stained crimson. _Hopefully the idiot will take it for shame._ She keeps her mouth closed and backs away, eyes cast demurely downward and sickened with herself.

“She is my sister, Monsieur. Please, may I offer you a humble fish for her offense? Fresh caught this morning.” The simpering smile on the elven man’s face makes Ellorian’s teeth hurt. 

The puffed up buffoon looks at Ellorian and then the fish, his face an expression of a man unused to being thwarted and bitter at the fresh experience. He sneers and turns on his heel. “I’d probably get a better lay fucking the damned fish.”

At that, Ellorian’s temper finally bursts like a barrel of qunari blackpowder. She waits for the oaf to amble into the middle of the thoroughfare, his leather shoes splashing carelessly through a murky puddle, before she strikes with a lick of frost. Mid-stride, the wooden heel of his right shoe freezes fast to the stone just long enough to make the fool stumble and fall with a great splash and a cry of dismay into the filth of the street. Ellorian turns her back to hide her satisfied smile, a cat neatening her whiskers, only to find the elven man scrambling back behind his table; eyes wide as those of his fish and trembling. 

_Dread Wolf take me, now I’ve really done it._ She feels her triumphant grin slide into something small and queasy. _Mythal’s mercy, what do I do?_ “Um...” Ellorian clumsy fingers fumble in her coin pouch until she can dig out a heavy royal, with the lion of Orlais on one side and the masked visage of Celene on the other. “I’ll take three of those snapper.” She presses the coin into his sweaty palm, face as serene as she can make it. 

He blinks in shock at the weight of gold in his hand. “This is--”

“For your trouble.” She gives him her most charming smile; once upon a time, it had made Gaspard de Chalons disregard her as a threat entirely. “And as a token of my gratitude.”

His scarred hands shake as he wraps three pink-bronze fish in waxed paper, eyes darting between her face and his task surreptitiously. When he speaks, he keeps his voice at a whisper and directed down at his table. “Thank you, Your Worship.”

Ellorian keeps her smile fixed in place by sheer force of will.

The third vial of potion is barely the length of her pinky finger, the glass smooth and warm in her palm as she drinks. _Another day closer._ Ellorian wordlessly thrusts it back at Samson before locking her window casement and drawing her drapes against the light of the full moon. 

She takes her time waking the fourth day; lazes as she would never have dared to do among the clan, where every hour of daylight was another hour to be spent working or under her mother’s stern tutelage. Fingers tapping against the glossy surface of her writing desk, she begins and discards several letters to Deshanna, setting the soiled parchments aside to be scraped clean later. The walls press in on her. _Dear Mother. I would appreciate it if you actually bothered to respond to this, instead of forcing me to rely on secondhand reports of my own clan. Have you noticed a large number of city elves converging on Wycome? Or are you too busy pulling strings to--_

Her goose-feather quill snaps under the force of her frustration, splattering black ink across the page. Ellorian puts her head in her hands, cheek pressed hard against her prosthetic. _Is it even a lead worth following? A map and a book of herbs, a note found in the room of a shemlen spy? Gilles was probably just an agent of a rival shipping house._ She sighs and gets out a fresh parchment and quill. 

When her restless hands and restless heart will allow no further inactivity, Ellorian dresses in her oldest leggings and shirt and makes her way to Dagna’s forge. _I can offer her an extra set of hands._ Her mouth twitches at the thought. _Well. Almost._

She spends the better part of the day in tedious, mind-numbing movement; devoting herself to the repetitive _whisk whisk whisk_ of a whetstone on a runed and ornamented throwing knife, the wheezing draw and steady push of the bellows, the hiss and flare of cherry-red metal in quenching oil. She works in the sweltering heat of the forge until sweat drips down her forehead and the muscles of her shoulders and back are aching and stiff, until the rhythmic clanging of Dagna’s hammer on folding steel echoes in her ears loudly enough to mostly drown out her thoughts. 

_Don’t think about what’s to come. Don’t think, don’t think. don’t think. Just work._

She is sweeping the floor for the third time (Who knew there could be so much dust?) when Dagna puts herself in Ellorian’s way, hands on hips. “That’s enough. Now you’re just getting underfoot.” 

Ellorian blinks, bites her lip. “It’s hours yet until sunset.” _Until my folly is paid anew, and we learn whether or not Leliana has slain or merely provoked that wyvern._

Dagna’s hands are gentle but firm when she pries the broom away from Ellorian. “Go upstairs. Take a bath. Cook is making something special tonight.” She leaves the implied _to take your mind off of things_ unspoken, to Ellorian’s relief and gratitude. 

Kariel chatters as the maids strip Ellorian and scrub the soot and sweat from her skin, but Dera keeps quiet. Her hands tremble when she laces Ellorian into a simple linen gown for dinner, fingers clumsy as she coils and pins Ellorian’s hair up off of her neck. When Kariel begs leave to help in the kitchens, Ellorian waits until she closes the door behind her before laying her living hand on Dera’s sleeve. 

“You’re frightened.” _As frightened as I am._

Unshed tears glisten in Dera’s big dark eyes. “I was born in Halamshiral, my Lady.” 

_Halamshiral. Where a whole city paid for the death of one noble shem in blood and ashes._ It stings Ellorian now, to know she had curtseyed to Halamshiral’s smiling butcher, had bowed over the hand that directed soldiers with torches and axes to tear the lives of her people apart. “One day, none of this will be out of the ordinary.” She makes her face serene, keeps her voice gentle and low. “One day, a murderer will just be a murderer; it won't matter if his victim was an elf. Today is the first step towards that.” She holds Dera’s gaze with her own, steady and unwavering in the face of her maid’s grief. 

“Do you really think it will be so, my Lady?” Dera keeps her voice at a whisper as if she does not wish to disturb the spirits of the dead, burned alive at the whim of the Empress of Fire. 

_I have to believe that day will come._ “Absolutely.” Ellorian smiles encouragingly before standing to smooth her skirts; there is no dampness on her left palm, nor any sensation of soft cloth between her fingers. _I have to believe that Leliana can salvage this._

Dera seems warmed by Ellorian’s steadfast confidence; she scrubs her tears away with the back of her hand. “It will be different this time. Marquise Briala changed the law so that elves can carry weapons without the guards breaking down our doors. If someone attacks, we will be ready.”

 _Mythal, Maker, somebody protect them. Untrained children who play at war don’t always come home._ Ellorian pats her maid’s hand and murmurs soothing words of agreement, heart hammering in her chest. _The Chantry cast the first stone this time, not an elf. Let them take their anger out on Leliana instead of the innocent._ The forced optimism is near enough to choke her. 

She keeps a precarious grip on her composure through all five courses of the meal; recites etiquette lessons in her head on the correct fork usage and gives genteel applause at each unlidded dish. They start with fig and goat cheese tarts, followed by roast duck in cherry sauce and a salad of peas and carrots topped with slivers of Treviso almonds. Ellorian nibbles at each bite delicately enough to satisfy even Vivienne’s exacting standards. When the food sticks in her constricting throat she washes it down with a Val Foret vintage, the garnet wine rich with a bouquet of blackberries and rose petals. Platters of nine varieties of cheese come and go until the cook herself enters the dining room to unveil her last creation, chocolate mousse garnished with candied violets. The frivolity of those blossoms, nature’s blush suspended eternal in frozen grains of sugar, sets Ellorian’s teeth on edge. _Smile,_ she reminds herself as she pushes back her chair. _Everybody is trying so hard to keep their spirits up._ She gives the red-faced cook a curtsey deep enough to grace a palace, skirts settling around her ankles in a perfect circle. 

When the meal is nothing but smears on empty china, the servants whisk away the dishes and lay down a fresh tablecloth. A tray of confits is set out before they retreat back downstairs, bowing. Dagna produces a pack of lacquered playing cards. “Anyone up for a game of Wicked Grace? We can bet with these.” The candied fruits sparkle like fat jewels in their bright twists of translucent paper.

Samson divvies up the sweets into four piles as Dagna deals, but Ellorian folds her living hand atop her prosthetic and concentrates on keeping her eyes forward and her shoulders back. She yearns to check the height of the sun, but someone has cleverly drawn the curtains and seated her with the window at her back. _It can’t be long now._ She studies the painted faces of her cards, and smooths her face of all expression. 

_A terrible hand._ The two and five of Knights, the nine of Daggers, the eight of Serpents, and the Song of Temerity. Ellorian keeps her cards in her right hand and toys with her silver goblet with her left, swirling the wine absently as she studies her companions. Dagna mutters something that sounds like “nug pellets” and Sera toys with a loose thread in the buttercups embroidered on the cuffs of her full sleeves, but Samson merely raises his wine goblet to his faintly upturned lips. _A good hand, or a bluff?_ She misses Varric’s stories and Iron Bull’s raucous laughter with all her heart, but the cheery warmth of the Herald’s Rest is only a fond memory, now.

She loses the first hand and a candied pear, but wins the second by dint of having a pair of Knights when Samson draws the Angel of Death in the very first round. She pops one of her new-won spoils into her mouth as Sera shuffles the deck and lets the sweetness melt away until only the tang of orange peel remains, only bothering to look at her cards once all five have been dealt. 

A pair of Drakes, and the Songs of Autumn, Twilight, _and_ Mercy. _A winning hand for certain._ She takes a long sip of dark wine to hide her smile and adds an extra apricot to her ante. Sera matches with two sweets of her own, but Dagna folds, muttering, while Samson carefully considers his hand. 

Ellorian takes the time to admire the artist’s handiwork on her own cards: the Drakes’ serpentine necks, an abstract swirl of fallen leaves, sunset over a gloomy forest. As in every deck, the Song of Mercy depicts Archon Hessarian’s bloody sword, painted in shades of silver and crimson; a stark contrast to the other cards’ riot of colors. _Mercy,_ she thinks. _A gift only given to shems._ Armel de Courvoisier had certainly shown no mercy in his butchery of three innocent women. She straightens her spine again; the sun must surely be setting by now and the three chevaliers on their way to the scaffold, to kneel before the headsman and say their final prayers. 

Samson finally tosses his ante into the glittering pile and everyone draws another card. Ellorian barely gives hers a glance before turning it face down on the tabletop and raising her ante with a handful of sugared cherries, assured in her victory. She can almost see the Grand Cathedral in her mind’s eye: Leliana on the dais, stirring the crowd with her sweet voice until the assembled mob roars for vengeance. The three chevaliers, stripped of their jeweled masks so the unwashed masses may run greedy eyes over their bare faces. The shine of the headsman’s sword, a gleaming arc of steel descending to spill the blue blood of the Empire across the marble steps. Armel would be the last, the block soaked red with the life of his comrades as he lays his young neck upon it. Ellorian wonders if he will weep. 

The next card she draws is painted with a figure robed and veiled in black: the Angel of Death. 

Later that night she drinks her final vial of Somnarus potion, holding the bitter herbs on her tongue for as long as she can while her maids unlace her gown and neatly plait her hair for bed. She wants to remember the flavors like a talisman: the sharp embrium base, inky tones of a bark from Seheron, astringent felandaris berries. _Tomorrow, I will be bait for the beast._ She curls on her side and waits for sleep to take her, counting her breaths in a mageling’s exercise learned at her mother’s knee. 

One…

Two…

Three…

Four…

Her fifth awakening is the most jarring of all.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry for taking so long to update, my health has been taking a beating lately. Have an extra-long chapter as an apology!
> 
> Special Thanks to Arcanista, as always, for editing.
> 
> Chapter Title is from a line in Shakespeare's Romeo and Juliet


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